If You Tame Me
by bobblychicken
Summary: Ripslinger finally does a decent thing in his life but where does it get him? Ending up in the care of Dusty and Co, of all people, with an unknown and crippling affliction for all his trouble. This is ultimately a story of healing, profound change, forgiveness, and accepting that the way things are, are really how they're supposed to be.
1. Too Late

"Where _are_ they?" Dusty fretted. "They should have been here almost two hours ago."

It was unusually cold as the group waited in the dead of night, all eyes straining in the darkness at the main road into Propwash Junction. They were all part of a rescue mission that they had never imagined they would be assisting in. None knew what to expect when Ned and Zed had shown up on their tarmac.

They were hysterical. From what they had gathered, the twins had been ambushed by a large group of humans in uniform. Dusty and Clarice had no doubt from their descriptions that they were attacked by the Cutters, trying to capture at least one of them and do whatever it was that they did to any poor machine that was brought into their clutches. It was a mystery. Planes and cars would just up and disappear without a trace and would never be heard from again.

With ropes tied around every extremity, Ned was being dragged, screaming and struggling, toward the harnesses when Ripslinger suddenly came barreling in in a rare display of valor, startling most of the group that was currently trying to manhandle Zed off of him and cutting through Ned's ropes. Of course this didn't put the Cutter's off for long as a good scare turned into rejoicing in their good luck that they had the opportunity to pull in a fine racing P-51, even though they weren't prepared to capture a plane of his size. Normally they would use a large swath of netting pulled behind trucks to bring those in. Still, it wasn't long before Ripslinger had started to become overwhelmed as every available man had started throwing ropes over him. He went for the group in front of him that already had his wings bound, but then all the others behind him had lassoed his wings and tail and pulled him up when he was just inches away from mowing them all down with his spinning propeller blades. Ripslinger's engine roared through his scream of frustration and rage as they started pulling with all their might from both ends to temporarily immobilize him. Ned and Zed moved to try and help, but Ripslinger only screamed at them to get lost.

"Fly away! Ugh!" he twisted in his bindings, managing to throw a few cutters for the effort. "Get away!"

Reluctantly, they did fly away, but only just out of sight until they could follow them back to wherever they were taking their leader. That was a few days ago. They loitered around a cliff on the outskirts of the compound that they had been led to, having no idea how they should break in until Zed remembered that Dusty had that girl with him. The girl was human, and their boss had been captured by humans. It was all the connection they needed to know what they had to do next. After learning of the circumstance of Ripslinger's capture, Dusty all of a sudden didn't need any more convincing. Clarice was a bit more hesitant.

"Oh, come on, please! I know we tried to kill you and all, but you gotta help us!"

Clarice's front had already been crumbling just as Dusty's had after they told their story, but with two little planes, little still being about sixteen feet long a piece, practically on their bellies at her feet she finally let up. She had the feeling after this latest interaction with them that their behavior was largely influenced by Ripslinger's, and still, he couldn't be all bad if he'd risked himself so that they could escape. The little bastards were kind of cute anyway.

So here they all were now, anxiety mounting at every second that Clarice and Hugh, her partner in crime on these rescue missions they'd carry out here and there whenever the leads were good, had failed to arrive. Suddenly Skipper spoke up, startling everyone.

"There's lights comin' up the road."

Indeed there were. Everybody stood stock still as the two beams of light traveled ever closer through the darkness. It had to be them. What was confusing, though, was that nobody could hear the sound of an airplane at all. As the lights came closer, it was apparent that it was indeed Hugh's old Chevrolet pick-up, and they could all just make out the faint outline of a motionless, thirty-odd foot plane being towed behind it on a trailer. Ned and Zed were becoming more and more agitated the closer the truck came as Ned started crying out in devastation.

"Oh my god... Oh my _god_!" he wailed as Zed turned and buried his nose in his brother's flank, closing his eyes and cringing.

Dusty turned to Skipper,"Try to keep them from rushing the truck if you can. Come on, Dottie."

The Chevy stopped as they approached and Clarice jumped out of the bed of the truck to meet them.

"Clarice, what happened?" Dusty asked. "Is he -"

"No, he's still with us. I don't know what's wrong with him though; he was like this when we found him."  
Dottie rolled over to the trailer that Ripslinger was currently tied down to. Up close she could see that he was actually moving, although if just for the twitching and trembling of his flaps and ailerons.

"Well that explains why you guys were so late getting back," Dusty remarked as Clarice gave him a few pats on the side of the nose as he nuzzled her, "You had us worried there for a minute."

"What do you think, Dottie?" asked Clarice.

"I don't know, lets get him to the garage under some good light."

Once the trailer had been backed into the garage, Hugh jumped out to stretch his legs as Chug came over for a closer look at the robin's-egg blue classic.

"What in Chrysler's name is _in_ that thing?" he asked, still a little taken off guard at the sight of it pulling something Ripslinger's size.

"That's between me and the Old Lady," Hugh mumbled, shuffling a bit.

This was Clarice's thing; Hugh still found it awkward speaking to any vehicles. Meanwhile, Dottie was still in the middle of her assessment of Ripslinger's condition.

"There's no evidence that he's been opened up or tampered with recently, and from the fuel samples I've taken the only thing in his system is Thortrazepam."

"What's that?" Clarice asked.

"It's a major sedative in our world, I don't even want to think about how the Cutters were able to get a hold of any. Still, that doesn't explain the twitching, which has been getting worse and worse as the drugs are wearing off now."

"I wonder if that isn't why they had him sedated," Dusty ventured.

"Maybe. I have no idea what they did, and he sure isn't talking."

"So we just wait now, I guess," Clarice concluded.

"Yep. And now we wait. Who want's to take the first shift?" asked Dottie.

"I vote Dusty," Clarice piped up, jumping and raising a hand up high, "since it was his idea."

"Hey, it wasn't my idea, Ned and Zed showed up here asking for help! You're the one who agreed to break into the place and get him out."

"So? That doesn't mean I want to be stuck alone with tall, dark and psycho here; I don't care how debilitated he is."

"Whatever," Dusty's engine gave a harsh flutter, "My hangar isn't big enough for the both of us. We could use that old hangar across the runway. It's quiet and out of the way enough, but we'll have to get it fit to live in again. It'll do for tonight, I guess."

XXxx

Ripslinger slowly came out of a feverish sleep. A bad ache had settled in throughout his whole body like some conquering enemy. He tried to move, but the place he was in and it's sparse furnishings were reeling like he'd been thrown into a tailspin. He could not make anything stay solid or still. Not inside nor out.

Alternating waves of hot and cold kept washing over him as he tried to force himself up, but his landing gear wouldn't hold. Shaking violently now, Ripslinger tried once gain to stand. This time his landing gear stayed under him, but his equilibrium was completely shot. He felt as though some central ball-bearing somewhere inside him that made balance possible had been knocked loose. The ache had turned into an intense, throbbing pain so that he no longer even saw shapes, only patches of gray and black. He felt as if he were being burned from the inside out, as if he were being scoured.

XXxx

Dusty sat in front of an old television set with the volume on mute, the glow from the screen washing over him in the darkness. He peered into it blearily; who knew late night television could be so entertaining? It was almost putting him to sleep faster than simply having his eyes glued to the prostrate plane on the other side of the hangar.

But then the continuous rattling coming from the corner grew into a shuffling and banging. Dusty looked over to see Ripslinger actually attempting to get to his landing gear. Trying to shake himself to alertness, Dusty went over to him.

"Rip?"

He didn't respond. It was almost like he had no perception that Dusty was with him. Then the tremors oscillating through his body intensified and he collapsed jarringly back down into a quivering, shuddering mess. Dusty immediately radioed for Dottie, too afraid to go anywhere near or to touch him for fear of exacerbating his condition. She sleepily rolled in, took stock of the new activity, and then injected something through Ripslinger's fuel lines.

"You know I think you were right, Dusty," said Dottie as they both sat back and waited for the drugs to take effect.

Dusty watched Ripslinger as he lay miserably on the floor, trembling. He was already starting to feel it. The racing P-51 closed his eyes tight, opening his mouth to draw a tired breath. He made a weak, short noise, as if attempting to speak, but he only shuddered, his landing gear scrabbling at the floor feebly as his eyes opened part way. Dusty let out a soft sigh, trying to keep his expression level.

"Never thought I'd ever feel sorry for him..."

"Yeah…" Dottie whispered. "Anyway, he'll have to be kept sedated until this blows over; if it blows over."

Dusty said nothing, just quietly watched as Ripslinger finally closed his eyes and went still again, almost.

"His flaps are still twitching. Shouldn't you give him a little bit more of a dose?"

"I can't give him more, it'll put him into a coma. This is the best we can get it."

"Alright. I think we're good here for now then. Goodnight, Dottie."

"'Night, Dusty. Radio me if anything else happens."

* * *

Well. Here is where it all begins. The story of how Dusty Crophopper and Ripslinger became friends. I think this is pretty terrible, but R&R, pretty please?


	2. Fractured

Two days had seen Ripslinger in no better or worse condition than he'd been in since he'd first been rescued. Each time they'd allowed him to come out of sedation, he would only regain consciousness for a few minutes, muttering a few incoherent words before he would deteriorate back into full-body tremors. It had been on Skipper's watch on the third day after another attempt reviving him had ended in failure once again. He watched as the last few jerking spasms left his body and Ripslinger succumbed another round of drugs. Now, Skipper's spirit was just as tough as his body and for the most part without much sentimentality, but, like most who have experienced pain and hardship, he could still recognize and respect suffering when he saw it.

"How long are we supposed to drag this on for?"

"I don't know, Skipper, what do you want me to do? This is Dusty's thing," Dottie answered, exasperated. "I have no idea what the Cutters even did to make him this way. If I did, maybe I could fix him, but it's not like we can just walk up to their front door and ask them. This whole situation is just total slag all over."

Ned and Zed were starting to get close to despair as they lay pressed in against Ripslinger where he lay in the newly refurbished hangar. They had done a really good job of it, especially in reinforcing the walls and adding a locking mechanism to the outside of the doors. That part was at Skipper's insistence, but they had all agreed that he had a point that Ripslinger had a rather unstable, aggressive personality to begin with. What if whatever the Cutters did had left it even more fractured?

It was revealed just how fractured it was when, Clarice, despite all her talk that she wasn't going to have anymore to do with Ripslinger after getting him away from the Cutters, was nervously waiting out her watch. She wasn't sure what came over her. Like the others, she did actually feel sorry for the poor bastard. Maybe she was just tired. They all were. Whatever the reason, she found herself walking right up to the huge plane's nose. She thought there was something different about the way he was sleeping. Like he seemed to be legitimately sleeping as opposed to just heavily sedated, although his expression looked troubled as he breathed softly through his slightly open mouth. Then she noticed that his flaps were no longer twitching.

How long ago had that stopped? Ripslinger suddenly took a short, but deeper breath. She came even closer, laying her hand against the side of his nose. _I must be crazy_ , she thought as she gave it a few firm pats. Ripslinger took another deep breath, his eyes opening for just a split-second before closing again. All of his flaps rose up, and they trembled a bit before lowering back down into their original positions. Clarice had already started to back away, but then his eyes opened again, this time staying open. He seemed only mildly confused, his eyes darting around the hangar as he slowly rose up from the ground.

Clarice was frozen on the spot, too afraid to move. Then he spotted her. Something flickered in his continence that she couldn't read. Recognition? Fear? Ripslinger's demeanor suddenly changed. Now he was the one backing away as he lowered himself down on his landing gear, his eyes narrowing as his flaps extended down in a defensive posture.

Clarice was thrown off guard by this odd behavior. She didn't quite know how to react. So she surprised herself again by walking toward where Ripslinger was getting closer and closer to backing himself into a wall. It was almost comical to think of a plane so big backing away from a tiny thing like herself. When his tail hit the wall, he then started turning his side into it. Then tip of his right wing hit the wall as well and he suddenly lost his balance and fell over. He didn't quite have his coordination back just yet.

"Rip! What's the matter?"

His engine let out a hiss as he stared at her from his position on the floor. Clarice was right before his nose when the beginnings of a rumbling growl could just be heard over the hissing.

"What's wrong?" Clarice asked, reaching out in an attempt to calm him.

Ripslinger lifted up back onto his landing gear. His engine fluttered and revved as he made a mock lunge right for her, pulling himself up just inches before coming into contact. He backed away again and then slowly sank back down to the floor, the small amount of activity evidently tiring him out as he let himself drop at the last moment with a thud and a chuffing of his engine. Clarice had no idea what made her keep pushing her luck as she continued toward Ripslinger, who's harsh fluttering, growling, and hissing had reached ear-splitting levels as he carried on not unlike what you might hear from an angry king cobra, if the snake were about 32 feet long.

Suddenly the tables turned as Ripslinger abruptly sprang up from the floor toward her, walking her back away from what he'd apparently deemed was his preferred corner. He was moving too fast for Clarice to get out of his way without him knocking her over, and even though she knew better, instinct overpowered any sense of proper custom in interacting with airplanes and she grabbed onto his prop blades to steady herself as he continued to push her backward.

"Ah! Rip! What are you-"

He had pushed her into the opposite corner, but instead of moving back to his, he sat and held her there. Any movement she made, however slight, Ripslinger had suddenly found the energy and dexterity to mach it and block any escape attempt. But that was all. Didn't make to try and harm her, let alone fire up his engine properly. Just stared down at her through unblinking, cold olive-colored eyes and huffed, snorting through the many exhausts that lined his nose. It was then that she'd remembered the little radio attached to her hip. Clarice slowly brought it to her mouth and pressed the little button on the side.

"Dusty."

 _"Yeah?"_ his voice crackled through the little speaker, causing Ripslinger to tilt slightly in confusion.

"I've got good news," Clarice continued, not taking her eyes off the green Mustang in front of her. "Sleeping beauty's up."

 _"He is?! When?! I'm on my over."_

"Try to hurry it up will you? He's kind of got me cornered here."

 _"Oh, great... Just stay calm, I'll be right there."_

She was calm, in a torpid kind of way. The same way a person who works with large or dangerous animals would be when in the same sort of situation. There's really nothing else you can do. But then it all went straight to hell as soon as the doors to the hangar slid open and Dusty appeared in the doorway.

Ripslinger turned, and his whole demeanor changed as soon as he laid eyes on the orange racer. His eyes went wide. He then turned back to Clarice, then back to Dusty, and then something snapped and Ripslinger immediately rushed him.

Clarice watched in horror as Dusty barely had time to start his engine and get his prop going before Ripslinger was upon him, but it wasn't long before Dusty, in desperation, had switched to attacking rather than just trying to defend himself. Normally Dusty was reckoned a good fighter, even in fights with opponents much bigger than himself, but this attack was so unprovoked, so savage and haphazard that he'd been taken by surprise. He'd had no time to think of any kind of strategy for Ripslinger's relentless onslaught, and he was quickly becoming overpowered.

Clarice still stood rooted to the spot as the two planes fought, frozen in watching Dusty give up ground as Ripslinger attempted to bring him to the floor, biting anywhere he could get a grip in the process. Then all of a sudden a diluted-looking red fluid began spilling and splattering all over the ground underneath Dusty as he struggled to stay up on his landing gear against Ripslinger's weight. A terrible thought shot through Clarice's mind then, making her tear up. _Oh my God... Dusty's gonna die!_

"SKIPPER!" she shrieked, forgetting about the radio in her panic.

Dusty was eventually thrown to the ground, and once he was down, he did not get back up. Ripslinger advanced across the floor slowly. He paused, as if to gather himself up to charge full-speed into Dusty's prone form and smash him into the wall behind him, but right as he shot forward he was given a tremendous blow directly to the side of his fuselage by a broad, dark blue wing and sent nearly back into his own corner.

Ripslinger's engine growled and snarled as he struggled back up onto his landing gear, Skipper taking the time to put himself between Dusty and the deranged P-51. At the sight of Skipper, Ripslinger became even more infuriated as he recklessly charged the Corsair, managing to sink his teeth into Skipper's wing even as he turned to side-step him like a matador. However, Skipper outweighed him by a tidy two thousand-odd pounds despite being roughly the same size, and in fighting a plane of his strength and courage, this move proved a mistake for Ripslinger. Skipper was just as terrifying in combat on the ground as in the air; completely indifferent to any wounds he received himself as he closed with his adversaries until his bulk overbore and exhausted them. Ripslinger would have done better to keep clear and use his propellers, but in his apparent psychosis any sort of strategy was beyond him and he retained his hold like a pitbull.

Skipper, snarling with the effort, was able to fling him off. He felt Ripslinger's closed teeth come ripping out of his wing, and he wasted no time as the checker-marked plane was spun around to use his full body weight to pin Ripslinger to the floor. He struggled underneath the old war plane, then Skipper snarled through such a frightful noise of his engine that threatened to burst the eardrums of anyone close by. Ripslinger, even in his scrambled mind, was of course cowed and soon stopped his struggling and became numbly placid as Dottie, who had rushed over to the hangar behind Skipper, gave him a hefty dose of tranquilizers. Skipper felt him relax underneath him and moved off, turning to stare at him out of tired, angry eyes.

"I should kill you for this. Consider yourself lucky that your fate is ultimately with Dusty." Ripslinger gazed blearily up at him, his eyes held a defiant glint in them as the sedatives took full effect. "At least for now it is..."

"Oh, Dusty..."

Skipper turned, fluids bleeding from his wing, at the sound of Clarice's voice. Dusty still lay on the floor, his eyes closed. They opened and looked up at Skipper weakly as he approached.

"S-Skip..." he whimpered, attempting to rise.

"Hush." Skipper said, a bit more harsh than he would have liked. "You're gonna be fine. You did good, kid."

Dusty breathed in a shaking sigh. Later, as Dottie was patching up the half dozen or more bite wounds over various parts of his body, Dusty could only dimly keep replaying the haunting look in Ripslinger's eyes. Of course he'd always thought it of him, but now, seeing it for real in actuality, even though there could be emotion in them, there was nothing really behind them. Like the lights were on but nobody was home. Soulless. By the time Ripslinger awoke again, he found himself surrounded by newly placed steel bars.

* * *

Skipper saves the day again! And before you ask where I'm going with this, your guess is as good as mine.


	3. Case Studies

Dottie sat in the shop finishing up her repair reports for the day. At the top of the file she was currently scrutinizing for clues that she knew weren't there was the lengthy title of "MBIS MNSBIS RNS RINS **GCh Ripslinger** SRM OTRM REA3". She wasn't used to having inpatients. Let alone psychotic inpatients. Most of her work was outpatient oriented, technical stuff. Losing some part of your body was one thing, but losing your mind? Head cases were quite outside her typical caseload.

Dusty had been absolutely adamant that he remain in their care, to hell with the fact that they were so ill-equipped to handle a case so severe. He never really went into detail for his motives on the matter, only ending most conversations on the subject with something along the lines of, "He ended up like this because he risked himself to save them. Don't you understand? He _saved_ them."

That statement had filled Dottie with dread. She had a good idea of what Dusty was getting at even though he wasn't coming out and saying it directly. She wasn't so scared of the possibility of failure being an outcome as she was of what may happen if they were to succeed. A Freudian quote was brought to mind. Something about those that attempt to wrestle against another's demons couldn't possibly come out unscathed themselves at the end. What would that mean for Dusty? Or for the rest of them for that matter?

Dottie put the thought out of her mind as she read through her write ups. Altered mentation... ("Make that severely altered."), hypersensitivity to sound or quick movements... Violent response to certain stimuli... Anorexia... and the list went on. He still suffered from occasional bouts of incoordination and mild fits of tremors, but those episodes usually only occurred if he became overstimulated. They eventually found that he remained placid if the lights in the hangar were left off.

Dusty hated it, the idea of keeping Ripslinger shut away in the dark like he was some wild animal. But it couldn't be helped at the moment. First priority was keeping everyone, including Ripslinger, safe, and that entailed that only Dottie, Sparky, and sometimes Chug if they needed the muscle, were allowed to enter the hangar. His reactions to them were mild at worst, so long as they kept the lights low and moved slowly and quietly around him. It was proposed that because they weren't familiar to him, Ripslinger had no deep feelings for them wherever his mind was currently, whereas the mere sight of Dusty would throw Ripslinger into a rage-state that he would not calm down from unless they sedated him, which was starting to get harder and harder to do anymore. Sparky was worried that the recent excessive use of drugs might even be doing more damage. He was as stumped as the rest of them as to how to proceed actually treating Ripslinger. Altered mentation due to either physical or mental trauma could be difficult to tell a part if you didn't have any kind of history on the matter, which they didn't, and Dottie herself had the distinct feeling that somehow this wasn't something that they could actually "fix". They were all pretty much playing the waiting game.

No, they would have to figure out ways of getting around using sedatives as much as possible which meant that Dusty was forbidden from going into the hangar due to the extreme reactions it would illicit from Ripslinger. Skipper and now Clarice caused much the same kind of response, so they were to keep away as well, and it was later revealed in a huge setback that it may have even been nothing personal about Clarice, but that Ripslinger reacted badly toward all humans. Hugh had actually volunteered to help with the day's morning exam, and no sooner than he'd closed the doors behind him Ripslinger had charged the bars, sitting at the gate to the cell and trying to attack Dottie or Sparky if they came near it. Needless to say they weren't able to do anything with him for the rest of the day. Trying to get him properly eat in the hopes that it would somehow help was an idea that Chug had thrown out that Skipper had quashed in his typical, blunt manner.

"He's not going to eat anything right now; he doesn't even know where or who the hell he is."

They gave it a shot anyway. Ripslinger fussed with the food a bit but ultimately left it alone. It's not like he was exerting himself all that much to need it that badly, in fact he hardly ever ran his engine at all except to take up all the hissing and growling and carrying on at them. Other than a few odd, almost sub-vocal utterances, he never spoke either. There was one time that Dottie could have swore that he said something like "Off", but it also sounded more exploratory in nature than an actual attempt to speak so she wrote it off as just a coincidence.

The first attempt to directly add fuel into Ripslinger's system was a disaster. Dottie and Sparky quietly crept in, opening the doors only as wide as they needed to fit through them. They turned up the dimmer switch for the barest minimum of light needed to work with and waited for their eyes to adjust. Ripslinger was standing up on his landing gear with his back to them in a corner of the cell, not moving. When they'd opened the gate, the only acknowledgment they got was a low, heavy chuffing. As Sparky moved into position with a fuel can at the ready, his engine made that hiss-snarl noise that everybody would come to hate from then on. It was Ripslinger's "get away from me" noise, but it was also difficult to distinguish from his "I'm going to eat you" noise. Not that it mattered, whatever it was being used as, it never led to anything good.

They both froze where they were, eyes glued unblinking toward the front of Ripslinger's body. He remained motionless. They decided to proceed. Sparky got closer and Ripslinger stiffened, then when he politely gave a gentle tap next to his fuel cap so as not to startle him he suddenly snarled and spun around.

"Watch out Sparky, he'll have you!"

At the sound of Dottie's shout, Ripslinger's attention was now focused on her. He went for her, but fortunately the movement was sluggish and Dottie was able to get out of his way, but unfortunately she was forced toward the back wall and away from the gate. She tried to duck past him as he turned toward where she had moved, but quickly learned that she'd made a mistake as he'd caught one of her forks in his mouth as she went by.

Ripslinger dragged her back into the corner, letting her go and letting loose such a terrible noise from his engine as froze the antifreeze in both Dottie and Sparky's engines when they realized that he was actually speaking. His lips moved, his voice sounding guttural and utterly unnatural as a slight tremor began shaking through this body. They could just barely understand the words, "You're not... getting... out..." through the sounds of his engine. Dottie whimpered as Ripslinger brought his nose forward right into her face, teeth bared in a snarl as he drooled in feverish dementia.

"Damn you..." he growled through his engine, and suddenly a black fluid began dripping from his jaws, his voice becoming clearer the more he spoke. "I'll fight it... I'll tear you to pieces. Damn the humans... Damn you all!"

Ripslinger sagged into his landing gear, gagging, threatening to collapse. Dottie watched in muted surprise as Sparky, without any hesitation, went to brace himself against Ripslinger's body. A growl gurgled up from his engine as he made a weak attempt to shrug him off, but Sparky didn't budge as he helped to try to control his descent to the ground. Ripslinger lay partially on his side, still trembling and panting heavily as if in pain. Sparky stayed right by his side, stroking the side of his fuselage with a fork before turning a slightly anxious eye to Dottie, who simply stood where she was, staring at Ripslinger with an empty but mildly curious expression.

XXxx

A few days had gone by and everyone had been thanking their lucky stars that there hadn't been another incident, at least not any that involved Ripslinger trying to kill them. He was mostly placid during medical exams, so long as they followed the rules, but was still refusing any sustenance by any means. That last attempt was a mistake, Dottie had realized that now, and was beating herself up over not catching on that he may have grown hypersensitive to anything being around his fuel cap through this whole ordeal. Whether that was due to what may have happened to him while in the hands of the cutters or from the numerous times that they themselves had to sedate him remained to be seen.

Ripslinger usually only had his worst fits when he was alone anymore. His sleeping patterns were even more erratic than usual due to being kept in constant darkness, and they noticed that most of his outbursts occurred upon waking up. They were alerted to these episodes either by a sudden onset of thrashing coming from the inside of the hangar along with the frustrated, rage-filled roaring and snarling of Ripslinger's engine, or the air would be filled with tortured screams as he cried out in anguish at some horror or another that his demented mind kept forcing him to re-live whenever he tried to sleep, and then either Dottie or Sparky or both of them would have to go in there and try to calm him down again. It was an awful, heartbreaking thing to have to hear, and it was more than what most of them could take, especially Ned and Zed, who hadn't been able to see Ripslinger since he'd almost killed Dusty. They had still stuck around for the most part, only flying back home every now and then to relay news and drum up the appearance that Ripslinger had taken an unexpected hiatus.

Clarice leaned back against the side of Zed's fuselage, who was hunkered down in the dewy grass and was thoroughly enjoying the early-spring mornings that Propwash Junction had to offer. After being in close contact over the last week and a half she had really come to like them, and they her. She quickly understood why the two were virtually inseparable.

They had a habit of making toys out of any ordinary object to entertain themselves, and Clarice had noticed that Zed played a lot harder with them by contrast to Ned and yet seemed to lose interest much faster. There were few things that could hold his attention for very long and he startled easily, scurrying under something, usually his brother, if someone were to drop of crate of tools or other such noises. Zed just didn't have much of an ability to separate what was important in his environment from what was not, and it didn't take Clarice long to realize that he had some sort of plane version of ADHD, and Ned always made sure he was on hand to steer him back in the right direction he started straying. Despite constantly fighting like cats and dogs against cats and dogs, the two were extremely close, and if the time came for them to actually work together, whatever the job, their teamwork was as cohesive as if they really had been one plane.

Zed was making his way over to them when the strangled roar of an engine rang out across the fields, breaking Clarice from her thoughts and causing the three to snap their attention over to Ripslinger's hangar. There was a loud crash and a snarl, and then another terrible roar ripped through the air, actual screams just barely audible over the furious noise as more thrashing was heard, then all was silent. The girl and the two Zivkos were also silent as they watched the hangar, waiting for something else to happen, and when it didn't they all let their breaths out. Ned's engine fluttered anxiously as Zed practically crawled to Clarice for comfort. His engine purred as she stroked his nose, and then Clarice let out an "oof" as he moved up and tried to settle into her lap.

"Ugh,"Clarice grunted as she tried to adjust herself under his weight even though he was trying his best to be gentle with her, "Do you think you're a fucking chihuahua?"

"What's a chihuahua?" Zed asked, his voice partially muffled in her chest. "I like your boobs."

It was no big secret that despite being what they were most aircraft and other vehicles enjoyed soft things, but Clarice still didn't quite know how to respond to that one. She felt Ned shift a bit behind her.

"Okay, get off," he ordered.

"Mm-mm," Zed smiled and snuggled further into Clarice.

"You know how badly I can beat you right?"

"Mm-hmm," he nodded, still smiling.

Before things could escalate further, they were all distracted by the voices of Dusty and Dottie, and it sounded like they were having a serious conversation.

XXxx

"Look, Dusty, we can't go on like this," Dottie was saying. "The very instant we think we're making just the tiniest bit of progress, we keep getting set back; we're in deep slag here!"

"I know," came Dusty's exasperated reply, "But these things can take a long time sometimes, I mean, look at Skipper."

"This is nothing like Skipper," Dottie said, slowly and quietly. "and even if it was, if it hadn't been for you, he probably would never have come out of it; he's made that perfectly clear himself."

Dusty opened his mouth to object, but ended up just letting it out in agreement.

"Ripslinger is cracked up, Dusty. You can't possibly think that you're going to have the same effect on him; you know damn well what happens if he so much as looks at you. We've got to get him some real help. With _professionals_."

"No!"

Both Dusty and Dottie looked around to see Ned and Zed coming toward them. Ned was the one that spoke.

"You can't send him back! Our image is hurting enough as it is since you beat him in the WATGR."

"If he goes back," Zed continued. "They'll just end up putting him in some psych ward and _everyone_ will know about it! And they'll ruin him worse than anything in there. He's way better off staying here."

Everyone was quiet for a time. Then Dottie broke the silence.

"Well what do you suggest we do? What aren't we doing to help him that we aren't doing already?"

"Let us see him!" Ned answered.

"Yeah, let us see him! You said he freaks out whenever he sees Dusty; he's gotta remember us then!"

XXxx

Despite Dusty and Dottie's misgivings, Ned, Zed, and Dusty stood outside the doors to Ripslinger's hangar as Dusty rattled off all the Rules In Order to Keep Ripslinger from Having a Conniption.

"Keep the lights low, and keep the bars between you and him; do not try and get inside with him. Don't forget to go slow -"

" _We_ know how to act around him!" Ned interrupted, and with that, the two brothers, wearing matching haughty expressions rolled past Dusty and into the hangar.

Dusty's engine chuffed sheepishly as he watched them go, making sure to keep out of sight, but staying just outside should he hear any trouble. Ned and Zed did do as they were told, though, and kept the lights dimmed. Ripslinger appeared to be dozing, hunkered down into this landing gear, but at the two Zivkos entering the hangar his eyes opened, alert but appearing calm as he rose up slightly and turned toward them.

No one moved for a time, each taking in the appearance of the other. Ripslinger looked in rough shape. Whatever damage he caused to himself was repaired and dents hammered out as quick as Dottie could make it before he came out of sedation from the bigger outbursts, although a few little ones still remained here and there, but his paint was looking more the worse for wear, being more intricate a design and thought to be less important a thing to remedy, all things considered. Ned and Zed both refrained from recoiling at the sight of what their leader had been reduced to and the fate that he'd spared them from.

Ned moved forward first, as was custom. Ripslinger watched him as he made his way over at a steady, not too fast; not too slow pace, the P-51's expression never wavering from mild interest. Then suddenly he got up and moved from his corner, the abrupt action startling the green-fronted Zivko into stillness as Ripslinger went right up to the bars, bumping his nose as far as it would go between them before stopping. Ned fought to steel himself. For all his vanity and domineering personality, Ripslinger actually despised signs of fear or submission in his presence. It greatly upset him for reasons that no one could figure out and was even more likely to become aggressive toward that kind of behavior than one who might act too bold around him.

An eager chuffing emanated from Ripslinger's engine as he pressed a little harder into the bars. Ned gulped, and continued forward, slower this time, closing the distance until the points of their noses touched in a typical airplane greeting. Satisfied with their interactions so far, Ned backed away, turning to the side to call his brother over, which unwittingly put the tip of his wing close enough to Ripslinger's mouth that, almost as if on a reflex, he grabbed it and then pulled him savagely against the bars. Zed gasped and sped forward, grabbing Ned's other wing in his own teeth and pulling, almost uselessly, in the opposite direction.

Alerted to the commotion inside, Dusty rushed into the hangar to see Ned crushed against the bars of Ripslinger's cell, the Mustang pulling and yanking as if he were trying to pull him through them. Shaking himself out of the initial shock, he too jumped in and took the other side of Ned's wing in his mouth and pulled for all that he was worth, which caused him to really start screaming.

"Stop! Stop, my wings are gonna get ripped off!"

Fortunately with the added resistance, his wing came tearing out of Ripslinger's teeth. The three smaller planes all fell to the floor in a pile, struggling to get free of one another with the intention of getting the hell out of the hangar. Ripslinger remained pushing at the bars, growling along with his engine in anger and frustration. Then he suddenly wheeled away as if to go back to his favored corner, but then Dusty, Ned, and Zed drew back in shock and fear as he turned and charged the bars, ramming into them with such a force as to make them start to bend outward. He backed up once more, then charged again, this time deforming the bars almost to the point of breakage.

Ripslinger tried to back out again, but he appeared to have gotten himself stuck as well as caused severe damage to his nose and propellers. He struggled and twisted a bit to free himself before seeming to give up. Then all was still as the three outside the cell stared, wide-eyed, up at the deranged checker-marked plane as he glared back at them, seething against the bars. Then, before anybody could breath a sigh of relief, Ripslinger did the unthinkable. His engine snarled as he began actively trying to push himself the rest of the way through the bars. Dusty, Ned, and Zed looked on in horror as his frame became more and more horribly disfigured the more he twisted, pushed, and thrashed in the bars.

"He's gonna kill himself!" Zed exclaimed over the noise.

"Stop! Rip, stop! Stop!" Dusty screamed in a panic, "Stop, Ripslinger!"

It was then that Dottie came racing in, unlocking the gate and dashing into the cell with the struggling Ripslinger, who paid no attention to her as she quickly administered sedatives to him. Due to how worked up he was, it took effect almost immediately. He quickly tired, letting out one last, drawn-out rev from his engine, slumping against the bars as his body relaxed and his eyes became half-lidded and unfocused.

Dusty stood rooted to the spot, his breaths coming in quiet, shaking pants, only faintly aware of the sounds and movement around him. Ned was crying in pain and despair as his brother tried to comfort him and licked around his face and wings. Dottie and Sparky were already cutting an unconscious Ripslinger out of the bars. Maybe she was right. He closed his eyes tightly.

 _It's hopeless..._

XXxx

After Ripslinger and the cell had been repaired, along with foam coverings added to the bars in the hopes of it making it harder for him to hurt himself, the mood to the place had become very subdued. Even Ripslinger had seemed quieter although he had become more difficult to work with now.

No one hardly spoke, least of all Dusty. He and Clarice were sat inside Dottie's garage, watching the residents going about their business and the planes coming and going. Clarice stroked back and forth across Dusty's hood. She felt him relax a bit and he sighed with a flutter of his engine as he settled down in an attempt to take a nap.

It was hard for her to see him like this. She didn't want to give up either, but it was difficult when even Dusty was at a complete loss. She quietly left her spot next to Dusty and started across to the other side of the tarmac.

The sun was setting behind her as she stood in front of the hangar that held Ripslinger. Clarice stood looking up at it while the far away sounds of Propwash Junction wafted over the area. Slowly, she slid one of the hangar doors open a few feet and looked in, and Ripslinger's immediate reaction was to look up and turn toward her, kicking up his engine in a fierce growl as he glared at her with hate-filled, yet seemingly empty, lifeless eyes. Clarice only stared back at him, her expression a mix of unease and uncertainty before her eyes drew downward and she closed the door, walking somberly back across the runway to the shop.

* * *

Insane in the membrane...


	4. Who Can Make the Sun Rise?

"Come on, Rip, you can't ignore me forever! Can you please just talk to me? I don't care if it's even just one word, just say something!" Dusty was pleading.

Ripslinger remained stubbornly silent, his back turned to the smaller plane. He was still refusing to eat, now to talk anymore, or show any indication that he was wasn't just a museum prop.

"Pleeeeaase? I even have a question for you. Hmm? Curious yet? It's a reeally interesting one... I'm not gonna tell you what it is unless you say something... No? Not curious? Okay, lemme think. I have TWO questions for you! Although I doubt you'd know the answer to the second one..."

"If I TALK to you some, will you shut the hell up and leave me alone?" the P-51 finally spoke up in a tired, exasperated tone.

"Well it's about time! You were starting to get me worried," Dusty said, practically bouncing on his landing gear in a little victory cheer.

"And why would you worry about me?" asked Ripslinger lazily.

"Well, because I care about you."

"Now there's an amusing lie. You've got me caged in here against my will like I'm some kind of wild animal and you're seriously going to act like you care about me?" Ripslinger paused, huffing with a snort from his engine, "What crock of slag."

"Rip, you know why we can't let you out! You're not well!"

"How _well_ do I have to _be_?! I'm _talking_ , hell, I haven't even tried to kill any of you; what more do you want?"

"Not that you can remember," Dusty pointed out, and Ripslinger seemed to be taken aback by this information, "You had another collapsing episode this morning and just yesterday you almost turned Sparky into scrap metal during a fit of dementia."

"Get out. You're getting on my nerves. I said I'd talk, and I'm done. So just go."

"But Rip..."

"I said get out," Ripslinger coldly repeated, turning his back once again and refusing to say any more.

After a while of trying to get him to speak to him again, Dusty finally gave up for now and left the hangar. He tried to feel encouraged that he had gotten him to talk at least a little bit, but he was still left feeling emptier than when he refused to say anything to him at all. Dusty didn't know what to do. What started this; all of this? They had all rejoiced when he had suddenly gotten his speech back, thinking that they would finally have some answers as to what happened to him while he was captured by the Cutters so that maybe they would be able to help. But it was short lived as he flat-out refused to speak about it, even becoming violent if just gently pressed despite the fact that he was still suffering the effects of the incident. What were they going to do?

"What's with the face?" Skipper asked him as he approached Dottie's garage where everyone was having lunch.

"Just Ripslinger," Dusty muttered, going over to sit a little off to the side by himself.

"Still nothin', huh?"

"Oh, no, he talked to me this time."

"What did he say?!" asked Clarice and Dottie simultaneously.

"Not much. But I have the distinct feeling that he still hates me and thinks that everything that's happened is my fault."

"You're not saying you really believe that, do you?" Clarice asked him, and Dusty shook his front.

"No, and I don't think he actually does either. He's smarter than that. And really, how is he supposed to act? Whatever happened to him when he was with the Cutters has really messed him up; he's feeling lost right now. Not to mention betrayed because we've got him caged when he thinks there's nothing wrong with himself."

"You're going to have to stop being so soft on him," Skipper asserted matter-of-factly. "He should feel lucky that nothing worse was done to him or else that he's not dead."

"That's the thing though," Dusty agonized, "He's holding all the missing pieces to this but he refuses to talk about it and tell us what happened. I'll bet we could find a way to fix it if we only knew."

"Sounds like he's just being a big-ass baby to me," Clarice commented.

"Ripslinger's gonna be the death of me yet," Dusty griped, settling down into his landing gear, tired and frustrated.

Faced against that cold, olive-colored stare, the orange and white plane felt at a loss... and even a little guilty. He didn't know what to do. Dottie took pity on the forlorn racer and came over to sit beside him.

"Nothing's going to change all at once, Dusty, so you shouldn't worry about it all at once," the little blue forklift advised. "Just take it as it comes; one day at a time. All you can do is just be here for him."

"Yeah..." Dusty reluctantly agreed, being impatient. "The only reason he even said anything to me today was so that I'd shut up."

Skipper chuckled at that; Dottie did a little better in holding back a snort.

"Look on the bright side," Clarice continued. "he did actually say something. It's a start. Maybe tomorrow he'll say a little more?"

"You're right! Come on, gotta stay positive!" Dusty declared, trying to psyche himself up.

"I still think getting him to actually eat something would do a lot of good," Chug once again proposed.

"I'd rather not," said Sparky. "I can't speak for him, but I'd rather eat my food than wear it."

Everybody nodded and mumbled their agreements.

"Well maybe some junk food to bribe him wouldn't hurt."

Everyone looked around to see Ned and Zed rolling up.

"Junk food?" Skipper repeated.

"Yeah," Zed responded. "He'll never admit it, but the boss has a huge sweet tooth."

They were all dumbstruck for a second before Chug finally spoke up.

"Alright then, let's go over to the store and grab a bunch of candy."

"Uh uh," Ned countered. "He doesn't like American candy. Thinks it's cheap and too sweet. I think this calls for drastic measures."

"To Snook's?" His brother rejoined.

"To Snook's. We'll be back as soon as we can!"

The twin Zivkos headed for the runway, leaving the rest of the group blinking after them.

(AN: If anyone wants to imagine the Sammy Davis Jr version of The Candy Man playing over a montage of these two raiding this Willy Wonka-looking candy store where it's impossible to leave without buying at least a cavity's worth of gummy worms, feel free.)

XXxx

This was insufferable. Completely and utterly insufferable. Ripslinger would have preferred outright cruelty than this pretense of compassion. That and the utter indignity of being held captive. He turned enough to glare at the guard standing by the door of the hangar. The poor little forklift squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. Good. At least somebody around here had some sense, but then anger all of a sudden flared up in him at the thought of the guard only being afraid of him because they all thought was crazy. He turned back to face the cold, unyielding wall of the hangar that had been his prison for Chrysler knows how long already. Although it killed him to even admit it himself, he felt so helpless. Blind to the outside world for so long. The confusion, pain, and unease his psychotic episodes would bring him on a regular basis was starting to take their toll. Mostly unaware of the occurrences, the only indication he had that they were coming was a slight shaking in his frame and incoordination before he would shortly black out. He used to prefer solitude, an odd trait for an airplane to have, but now he was starting to feel very alone. On the heels of all these feelings a fiery rage began to wash over him.

How dare they... How dare he! Having the nerve to say he cares about him. Nonsense. But Dusty never made much sense to him. Ripslinger, although reluctantly, had to give credit where credit was due. There was nothing here he could possibly use to escape and he was kept under constant watch. He was completely at Dusty's mercy. He didn't expect him to actually have it in him to devise all these measures around him. _Bravo,_ Ripslinger thought bitterly.

There was a knock at the door to the hangar. Ripslinger snorted irritably. Again. No one else knocked. If he didn't know Dusty any better he would think that it was meant to be a stinging reminder of his helplessness, but he knew that that just wasn't in Dusty's nature. Still, it irked him. Ripslinger remained facing the wall, refusing to answer as Dusty entered and told the in-room guard to take a break. The slate-gray forklift left immediately, immensely grateful to be out of there.

"Hey there," Dusty said in his usual, hesitant greeting.

"Whatd'you want?" the green and black Mustang sighed.

"I brought you something!"

Ripslinger huffed his disinterest, but then immediately after, the intensely familiar scent of cocoa powder and boiling sugar and caramel hit him smack in the face. Reflexively, he jerked up and looked around.

"We flew these in first-class express all the way from California..." tempted Dusty as he pushed three bulging bags with the Snook's logo on them toward the front of the cell.

Ripslinger openly stared wide-eyed at the bags for a moment, but then his face soured back up again as he narrowed his eyes at Dusty in a glare before turning back around again, embarrassed at his reaction.

"I know you want one..." Dusty teased.

Then, unable to say no to himself any longer, Dusty nosed around for one of the dozens of different chocolates, rolling it up into his mouth on his tongue. Oh good Chrysler in heaven! He'd need to make this quick before he went full vacuum cleaner-mode. Ripslinger only scowled at the wall. Three times now he had been drugged and fuel manually pumped into his system. It was humiliating, but he had no choice in the matter now if he wanted to continue living. And he had to live; he had his plan.

"Okay, fine!" he spat, getting up to move in front of Dusty, the bars separating them. "But just one!"

"Hah! They said you couldn't say no to Snook's!" said Dusty as he tossed one of the bags through the bars.

"Hmph." Ripslinger snorted, nosing at the bag.

Those traitors... They looked okay. They smelt heavenly. Dusty watched with eager anticipation.

"Well? Come on..."

"I will eat it when I'm good and ready!" Ripslinger snapped.

"It's not like they're drugged or anything," said Dusty, picking out another chocolate for himself. What was this one supposed to be again? Some kind of s'mores truffle?

"...You are absolutely infuriating, do you know that?"

"What?" Dusty asked innocently before licking up another one.

"You... you..." Ripslinger's engine let out a frustrated growl before he was able to stifle it down. Patience, he reminded himself. You have to just string him along. "Just... go, please. Come back in a few minutes- hours," he quickly corrected. "Whatever, I don't care, but you're driving me crazy. So just go."

"Okay, okay, I'm leaving," Dusty said quietly, but inside he was cheering.

Ripslinger didn't tell him to go and die in a hole this time, and he'd actually said please! Oh happy day!

"Well?" Ripslinger said impatiently.

"I'm going, I'm going," Dusty said as he made his way out. "I'll just leave these here."

With a stoney expression, Ripslinger watched as Dusty left. Then slowly, his gaze crept down to the bag of chocolates but quickly averted away, then back again. He looked to the hangar doors. No one else was here. He was alone. He looked back down at the bag. To the doors. No one.

 _…They're mine, damn it!_

He lunged for the bag and started scarfing them all down, enjoying every last bite.

* * *

Hey, look who's talking! Although it's difficult to tell whether that's a good or a bad thing! Hope you enjoyed that little break for some more light-hearted content. Now we'll just have to see if chocolate really is the solution for everything.


	5. Convict

"Good morning, Rip," Dusty said as he entered the hangar and stopped in front of Ripslinger's cell.

"Go away," was the snappy reply from the sleeping mat in the far left corner.

"Hey, I just came in, how are you upset at me already?"

"I don't feel good and I don't feel like putting up with you so go _away_."

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" Dusty immediately started asking, worried.

"Oh, don't go having a conniption. I've just had about as much chocolate as I can stand for a while, that's all."

After the initial victory of them getting Ripslinger to eat that first round of candy from Snook's, they had been simply showering him with chocolate for the last three days. If Ripslinger didn't know any better he'd think they were planning to eat him. After a long moment of trying in vain to hold it in, Dusty burst out laughing. Indignant, and somewhat confused, Ripslinger finally turned around to face him.

"I'm glad that you're getting so much amusement from the fact that I'm uncomfortable."

"That's not why I'm laughing, I'm just – you really need to start eating real food," Dusty explained, trying to calm himself down before he stirred up the P-51's temper any further.

"Well I was going to eat this morning instead of making that little gray forklift what's-his-aft wear it as a hat but I wasn't feeling well. I was just going to eat it later."

Dusty stared.

"Really?"

"Really what?"

"You're going to eat."

"That's what I just said."

"Wow."

"What?!" Ripslinger shouted, getting up from the sleeping mat.

"Nothing I just wasn't expecting you to start eating willingly so fast with how you've been acting," Dusty said defensively.

"Well don't act so astonished about it; it's either I eat or I die and I refuse to give you people the satisfaction of knowing that you won."

"Hey, this is nothing like that and you know it! Everybody here has worked hard and been very patient all on your account."

"Don't give me that!" Ripslinger spat, "They only did all that to keep me secure in here and eliminate me as a threat!"

"That's not true! Why can't you accept that you're sick? I'm having a really hard time believing that you aren't aware that something is wrong with you."

"That's enough," Ripslinger's voice suddenly went cold. "I'm done talking, now leave."

"And something about this attitude of yours is rubbing me the wrong way," the orange and white racer continued, despite the warning tone in the caged Mustang's voice. "The more time I've spent with you these last few weeks since you were brought here has me thinking that a lot of this was something that was way before you were taken by the Cutters."

Ripslinger's engine roared as he rushed the bars in a furious charge.

"Get out, now! I don't care if I rot away in this cell, I don't ever want to see you again! You hear me? I hate you! I've always hated you and I can't wait until the day one of us finally dies so that I can be rid of you for good!"

"Rip... You don't mean that -" Dusty meekly tried to cover himself, knowing that he'd really done it now, although he didn't know why.

"Don't act like you care about me! You prefer them over me; you always have! I've _always_ been alone! You're way too late to pretend that I mean anything to you so get out!"

"But Rip..."

"OUT!"

Dusty regretfully high-tailed it out of there before Ripslinger could become any more enraged. The outside guard whistled.

"Well that escalated quickly."

"Shut up, Tommy," Dusty groused sourly as he rolled past him.

XXxx

It was turning out to be a really boring day, again. Clarice strolled around town on the rather hot spring day with nothing really to do. Everyone was busy with one thing or another. Dusty was currently in the beefed-up hangar trying to reason with the psychotic malcontent that had been living in it for the past few weeks, an effort that sometimes took hours or just minutes depending on the mood of either party. Her subconscious must have picked up on her thoughts about the two planes because she had soon found that her seemingly aimless wandering had brought her almost right up to Ripslinger's hangar.

One of the two little forklift guards outside noticed her and gave a shy wave. Clarice hesitantly returned it, puzzled by the sheepish reaction. Then abruptly the doors flew open, startling the three of them. Tommy gave a low whistle and Dusty grumbled something at him before storming off toward the tarmac. Before Clarice could even think about trying to catch up with him, he had taken to the sky and was gone.

"You'd figure he'd give it a rest after a while, don't you think?" Mike remarked.

"All they do is fight?" Clarice asked as she approached.

"Not all of the time, but I've never seen him in that kind of a mood before," Tommy answered. "I wonder what went on this time?"

"So do I," Clarice declared, crossing her arms. "In fact, I'd like to go in there and find out."

"Uh, I don't think that's a good idea, especially considering what just happened," Tommy hesitated.

"Hey, I've dealt with Rip before, I know to stay out of reach," Clarice brought herself up to stand a little taller. "So are you gentlemen going to let me in?"

"I don't know, Tommy."

"What, you in a hurry to go back in there with him?" the human girl contested. "What could a few minutes hurt? I'll be fine."

"Okay. But just for a bit. Remember, don't -"

"I know, I know. Spare me the helpless damsel talk alright?" Clarice said as she walked right passed them and let herself in.

She felt guilty for breaking her promise to Dusty not to go near Ripslinger, but after seeing him so upset, she had gone into full offensive-mode. After an unanswered knock to announce her presence, she peered inside. He was laying on the sleeping mat in his usual position with his back turned toward the door. Clarice slipped on in, closing the hangar doors behind her. For all her bravado outside, now she was nervous. The first time they'd met, he'd tried to kill her. Their second conscious interaction hadn't been any more pleasant. His tense posture told her that he was suspicious of whoever had just come in.

"Hello," Clarice started tentatively.

Ripslinger slowly rose up a bit then, his eyes widening at the sound of her voice, recognizing it, and a sickening, sadistic glee ghosted across his face for a moment before he spoke.

"Now there's a new voice. I'll admit that I'm curious. It's getting about that time for you all to eat, so that means that you're here on your own." Then he turned to face her. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes," Clarice answered firmly, trying to keep her voice from wavering at being faced with that cold, olive-colored stare again.

She took a step back as he approached, and then Ripslinger's eyes narrowed as his body stiffened. Luckily, Clarice was able to cotton on to what her mistake was and stepped back into place. He relaxed a bit.

"I remember you," Ripslinger went on, then his face slipped into an expression of mock-concern, "Hope those bruises healed up okay."

"It took a while but I'm fine now," Clarice tried to smile nonchalantly.

"Hmm, too bad," Ripslinger said, turning back around.

"Hmph," Clarice crossed her arms again, "Actually I came here because I was curious."

"Come to see the big, scary dangerous monster, huh?" he said, turning a bit to look back at her, "Well this isn't a zoo. Now get out."

"No, that's not it," Clarice said snappily, "I was just walking by when Dusty left in a hurry. I've only seen him that upset just a few times. I was wondering what you said to make him so angry."

"Well, why don't you go ask him. You're his pet after all."

"I don't want to hear it from him, I want to hear it from you. And I'm not his pet, and he's not mine," she corrected.

"Could have fooled me."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" she shouted, starting to bristle as her voice took on that squeaky quality it had a habit of doing when she stated to get legitimately angry.

Oh, this was going to be fun. These were the type of people that Ripslinger liked to tease. Maybe if he egged her on enough she'd make the mistake of coming too close and he'd pull her right through the bars and finish what he'd started that first night they had met. But then anger flared up in him as his thoughts were distracted by the blonde's next remark.

"You know you're acting pretty ballsy for someone in a cage."

"What did you say?!" Ripslinger growled harshly, immediately turning around to face her.

"I don't see why Dusty wants to talk to you so badly. You're rude, irritable, and stubborn..." Clarice continued, counting off on her fingers.

"You're one to talk!" Ripslinger snapped.

"He must be a masochist or something. It's the only explanation."

"Hah," Ripslinger laughed blandly, "He has to be to put up with you."

That finally got her.

"And you're a real pain in the ass, do you know that?"

"Yeah what else is new?" he lounged down atop his sleeping mat. "You know, _I'm_ actually curious now; what is it that Dusty's thinking with all this coming around and nagging day after day?"

"Well, if you must know, even though he tries to keep up a mask of optimism, he really is troubled about you despite what you think." Ripslinger gave a soft snort from his exhausts as Clarice went on. "That fact that you're so unhappy is what's bothering him the most."

"Now, gee, I wonder where he might have gotten that idea..."

"Not about the imprisonment, smart-ass," Clarice dead-panned. "Dusty's under the impression that this is some persisting thing that you've been dealing with for a long time now." Ripslinger turned away and lowered his nose a bit but said nothing, his expression turning slightly defensive. "He sits up at night just pondering about it."

There was a short period of silence between the human girl and the suddenly subdued P-51.

"Per aspra ad astra..." Ripslinger said quietly.

"What? What does that mean?" Clarice asked him, but he had clammed up and refused to say anything more.

Eventually she left, and Ripslinger remained still and silent long after she left, thinking.

XXxx

Skipper rolled across the grounds, looking above him at the sounds of an angry engine just tearing the sky apart. Dusty was high above Propwash Junction, flinging himself recklessly though the air, diving, rolling, and spinning with frustrated abandon. After he had finally tired himself out he came back down, landing roughly.

"I take it that you're frustrated?" Skipper asked, coming up beside him.

"What makes you say that?" Dusty tried to say coolly through his panting.

"Because you're out there killing yourself instead of taking it out on who you really want to."

"I don't want to hurt him, Skipper," assured Dusty sadly.

"Exactly, that's why you're out here."

Dusty's engine snorted in annoyance.

"So what did he do to piss you off so badly this time?"

"I don't know what to do, Skipper," Dusty started. "He doesn't listen to me, he doesn't talk to me hardly at all."

"Just keep trying. He's only acting this way because he knows your right and doesn't know how to argue with you. It's annoying. I would know."

"Hmph," Dusty smirked at the offhand, hooded insult.

"And maybe you should give it a rest about the Cutters for a while. Just talk with him; see what he'd been up to before this all happened. Whether or not he responds he has no choice but to listen."

"If I can get him to talk back. I really did it last time. I'm so mad at him, but I feel really sorry for him too."

"Well nothing's gonna get done up in the clouds."

"You're right," Dusty said, trying to cheer up a bit. "Let's go on back. Wish me luck."

"I'm not wishing you luck so much as wishing you patience."  
"Hey, I'm patient!" Dusty whined indignantly.

"Yeah, right! Have you seen yourself before dinner? Or lunch? Or -"

Skipper was interrupted as Dusty jumped up on him, his body falling heavily against the old Corsair's side as he started biting at him playfully. Skipper chuckled, shrugging him off easily enough. Then a short bout of roughhousing ensued that ended the usual way with Skipper deftly fending off all Dusty's "attacks" before simply sitting on him until the smaller plane admitted defeat.

"Okay, okay, you've made you're point!"

And the two of them joked and bickered all the way back to Dottie's garage.

XXxx

Dusty entered Ripslinger's hangar, without knocking this time and went to sit in his usual spot in front of the bars. Ripslinger refused to turn around and see who it was, but as the minutes ticked passed, the tenser he got. Eventually curiosity got the better of him and he turned to look. Upon seeing the little orange and white plane sitting passively in front of him, he scowled and turned back around. Dusty remained silent, and the minutes kept on going. Eventually Ripslinger's patience snapped.

" _What_. Do you. _Want_?"

"I just want to talk with you."

"God damn you," Ripslinger growled lowly.

"Just talking. No arguing, no debating. I don't even want to talk about what happened. Just... talking."

A snarl exploded from Ripslinger's engine and he charged the bars again, Dusty leaned back, wincing, but didn't back away as Ripslinger pulled himself up just before hitting them, turning to go back to his sleeping mat.

"There's so much that I want to tell you," Dusty continued steadily. "And ask you too. I've been so busy since getting into racing. I have all kinds of stories to tell you. My friends are awesome, but I feel like I can't talk about a lot of stuff like that. Not even Skipper would understand like you probably would."

Ripslinger was just getting ready to lay down when he stopped and turned around to face Dusty.

"If that is truly how you feel," he sneered, "then you'd know what keeping me in this cell is doing to me. What it would do to any one of us."

All of the steady continence that Dusty had was blasted away by that statement, and with a guilty reluctance he knew that Ripslinger was right as he continued.

"Fine. I admit it; something's wrong. But you know god damn well that keeping me grounded and shut away from the outside world, never so much as seeing the light of day, is not doing me any good either. You have to let me go."

"But you..." Dusty faltered, his resolve falling apart, "If I let you out... you're too unstable. What if you just go flying off and somebody get's hurt?"

"And where the hell am I going to fly off to?" Ripslinger argued. "Nobody knows about my little predicament but you and you're stupid friends. I don't need this getting out and becoming the next celebrity-goes-to-the-zoo story so I might as well stay here until it just blows over. Now let me _out_!"

They stared at one another a long while. He could see Dusty turning it over in his mind, conflicted. Then Dusty sighed. He slowly moved over to the door to the cell and un-did the lock, fully expecting Ripslinger to try to kill him once he set him free, only it didn't happen. Ripslinger rolled out calmly past Dusty and then stopped. He stared forward at the doors to the hangar. Dusty, confused and utterly unsure of himself or Ripslinger, watched him from behind.

XXxx

The forklift guards, Mike and Tommy, loitered around outside the hangar.

"It's been awfully quiet in there this time," Tommy observed.

"Yeah," Mike agreed. "Hey, wonder if Dusty finally got through to him?"

The very instant Mike had finished his sentence was the moment that the front of the hangar exploded in a tremendous crash and a green blur went flying out past them.

"What the hell was that?!" Mike shouted as he dusted off the debris.

Just then, Dusty dashed up in between them.

"Fuck! Did you guys see which way he went?"

"No," Tommy coughed, "What the hell just happened."

"I'm an idiot, that's what just happened!" Dusty lamented irritably as he flipped over into his radio. "Skipper!"

"Ah, jeez, Dusty, what's the matter?" Skipper winced on his end.

"Ripslinger is loose!"

"What?! How?!"

"... Because I let him out..."

"Why would you do that?! What the hell were you -"

"I _know,_ I know, I wasn't, okay? But we've gotta catch him before he hurts himself or someone else!"

XXxx

Upon finally escaping into the outside world, Ripslinger found himself temporarily blinded by the reintroduction of the high afternoon sun to his senses. He continued stubbornly forward in his attempt to escape. Once his vision finally came back he wasted no time in starting his engine in earnest this time. It would be to Dusty's relief that Ripslinger was actively avoiding people, his intent for once being solely to get away and not to cause harm. He wasn't even going to use the tarmac, the fields were flat enough to serve as a good enough runway. He didn't care about the risks to him going back home; didn't care about his image at the moment. He missed his cushy sleeping mat with a million different pillows and cushions, he missed his custom built pool on the roof of the RPX headquarters that you could turn the entire thing into a hot tub with the flick of a switch, he missed his Wi-fi. He was getting the hell out of here! He'll just lay low until it just went away. He'd gotten this better already. It would just go away on it's own, wouldn't it?

He pushed off up into the air, but after only reaching an altitude of around 30 feet Ripslinger was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread and unease. Something was wrong. He felt his engine lose power and he suddenly dropped down, straining and pushing to get himself back up only to experience the same results. His engine roared and whined down as he throttled and dropped once more as he fought against himself in the effort to stay airborne, eventually plowing into the ground, sending grass and dirt flying. He scrambled back up onto his landing gear, shaking himself a bit. He felt dizzy, and then another feeling creeped into the center of his being; fear. What was happening to him? He practically had a full tank, that was the whole reason that he'd started eating as much as he possibly could so that he would be able to fly away as soon as the opportunity presented itself. So what was the problem?

He was about to start his engine again when Skipper had finally caught up to him. Ripslinger didn't face him, but turned his side toward him as Skipper turned and did the same. The two were positioned facing opposite directions as they both shared guarded stares.

"That's enough, Rip," said Skipper calmly.

"Back off, Skipper," Ripslinger warned. "I'm not interested in a fight for once, I just wanna get out of here."

"You aren't going anywhere, although from the looks of things I don't think you have a choice," the old war-plane continued. "I agree; no one needs to get hurt. You'd do better to just give in. You're a danger to yourself and others."

At this statement, Ripslinger immediately swung around to face Skipper, his engine throttling back up again.

"Curse you!" he cried, moving to strike at him with his propeller blades. "Since when have I ever _not_ been?! I'll fucking _blind_ you, you bastard!"

A vicious fight ensued, the two planes engines roaring and rumbling as they wrestled over the grass, digging deep furrows into dirt with their wheels. By the time Dusty and the others had arrived, they broke from each other, panting heavily. By some misfortune, Skipper had not come out on top this time. A good, freely bleeding cut had indeed come close to nearly blinding him, and more watered-down red fluid flowed out of another bad gash in his left side. Ripslinger only had some dents and a few good bites in his wings for his trouble. Corsair and Mustang stared each other down determinedly, although Skipper's expression was laced with anxiety and fatigue.

"No..." Dusty murmured.

Never had he ever seen Skipper lose a fight. He went to rush onto the torn-apart field, but was stopped by Chug.  
"Wait, look!"

The tell-tale tremor had taken hold of Ripslinger and he trembled on his landing gear. The shaking soon became severe and the focus went from his eyes as he swayed where he stood, and then a black fluid started to flow from his mouth before he finally went crashing into the churned up grass and dirt. Dusty then turned his troubled gaze over to Skipper, who was struggling to stay up on his own landing gear. The threat disabled, he finally rushed to his mentor's aid, pushing himself under the warbird's belly where his wings joined to keep him from collapsing.

"You have to stay up!" Dusty pleaded as Skipper's weight quickly became nearly too much for him to handle. "You'll never stand again if you go down now. Please stay up!"

"Enough," Skipper exhaled. "I'm alright. Let me down, Dusty, I need to get off my wheels after that. Mother-fucker battered me to bits."

Reluctantly, Dusty helped lower Skipper the rest of the way down before moving to gingerly lick at the wound near his right eye.

"I'm so sorry, Skip."

"Don't be, kid. But at least get cracking on what you're going to do about him," he blew out another tired breath. "I'm getting too old for this."

* * *

Well Dusty?


	6. Party Up

At the intersection of two landing strips some little farm pickup came flying up to them as if his bumper was on fire and nearly ran Clarice over.

"Hey, what's the hurry?" Skipper demanded.

"Fight," the winded truck managed between pants, "Inside Honkers."

"A fight? Who?" asked Clarice.

"Them."

And that was all he said, speeding back around and tearing off the way he came. Clarice and Skipper exchanged looks before she jumped onto his wing and they sped off after him.

There was already quite a crowd in and out of Honkers. Some of the spectators looked as if they wanted to step in and put a stop to it, but were too afraid to get between the two warring planes. Skipper bullied his way to the front of the crowd to see what was happening. Tables were broken and strewn everywhere, and in the midst of it all the two aircraft, Ripslinger and Dusty, were pushing into the crooks of each others wings, biting and snapping at anything they could get a hold of. Fights on the ground between aircraft were messy, clumsy affairs involving a lot of teeth and wing-slapping. Clarice made to jump off of Skipper's wing even though she hadn't the foggiest idea of what she was going to do to get them to stop from tearing each other to pieces, but then he stopped her.

"It's alright, let them go," said Skipper, never taking his eyes off the fight, "They need this, the both of them. It's got to happen sooner or later."

Clarice silently agreed, resting a hand against his fuselage as if to try and borrow some his quiet, trustful patience. Dusty had just recovered from being thrown and was crouched down into his landing gear, several dents already marring his body. That morning Ripslinger had been sleeping peacefully for once when the loud knocking of who could only be Dusty had woken him. The smaller plane then surprised him as he wordlessly unlocked his cell door and opened it. Shocked, the P-51 had remained motionless. Dusty had beckoned him out, saying that they were going on a little outing.

Suspecting some kind of trickery Ripslinger didn't move, but orange and white racer persisted. When the two guards had seen who was exiting the room they had immediately bolted. Nothing was said as they rolled out into the sunshine. Still, Dusty was no fool, and was keyed into his every move should he try to escape despite the fact that it appeared that Ripslinger was unable to fly now. Once they had reached Honkers, Ripslinger had settled down at a table with Dusty calmly enough, but then someone had called out to Dusty, and as he turned to say hi, Ripslinger took advantage of the distraction and struck. The few patrons that were there fled at the terrible noise and spectacle of the two planes tangling with each other. Before long, and despite Dusty's diligence, Ripslinger had managed to get in behind him and grabbed his tail in his teeth, dragging him around backwards before tossing him away.

Dusty turned to look at him then. His expression was not angry. Not fearful. Just disappointed, and it only infuriated the Mustang all the more, but then the next moment Dusty sprang forward and sank his teeth into Ripslinger's left wing, just where it joined the body. Ripslinger jumped back in pain and surprise, dragging Dusty back with him as he continued to hold on for all he was worth, even shaking from side to side a bit. What, was he trying to rip his wing off or something?! Ripslinger tried to push against him, his propeller spinning so close he could feel it nick into Dusty's side every so often, but his tires couldn't get proper purchase on the smooth floor. He reared up, and as he did so, he finally felt his propeller blades score deeply over Dusty's back and flank. Dusty screamed through his teeth but still managed to keep his grip under the immense pain. He thrust upward, nearly putting Ripslinger over onto his canopy. Ripslinger lashed out again but Dusty had already loosed his hold and had backed out of range.

Ripslinger struggled back up. He could feel the burn of fuel and hydraulic fluid flowing from his wounded wing as it leaked and ran down the inside of his landing gear and started to pool on the floor. He could barely keep his weight on it. The hoses must have been damaged. But his propeller blades, stopped now, were coated in sickly red fluid, too.

Ripslinger knew he couldn't win. Even if he did kill Dusty, he would never survive the pack of other aircraft and vehicles that had them surrounded. He spared a second to look over the crowd now. His focus came to rest on Dusty's closest companions. The Corsair's stony expression gave nothing away, and that green fuel truck and the little blue forklift seemed like they were on the edge of hysterics. But Clarice was just staring back at him with that same disappointed expression that Dusty had worn before they had started beating each other to death. Then Dusty spoke from in front of him.

"Well," he panted, "here we are again. Doesn't matter if we're in the air or on the ground, you're still getting your aft beat. When are you ever going to learn to know when you're licked?"

"I'm going to kill you this time, Dusty," Ripslinger replied coldly, "and that damned Corsair won't be able to do one thing about it!"

Dusty's taunt had been deliberate as Ripslinger started to advance once more. He had hoped that he would come flying at him, but as he waited, hunkered down into his landing gear, Dusty realized that the larger plane wasn't going to be drawn again. Always quick to size up any new situation, Ripslinger was coming forward very slowly, keeping close to the ground himself. He meant to use his propellers again. Afraid, paying close attention to Ripslinger's approach, Dusty's eyes were drawn to the uneven movement as he rolled forward. He backed further away, and as he did so a thought came to him: _The left landing gear is dragging a bit._ Dusty immediately darted forward and down, starting his own engine as he struck out at Ripslinger's right side.

His propeller blades found Ripslinger's landing gear and he ripped sideways, but before he could draw back, Ripslinger's whole weight came down on him and the next moment he felt teeth in his tail again. Dusty screamed in pain, pressed to the floor and thrashing. Already getting a high from Dusty's fear and helplessness, Ripslinger loosed his hold on his tail and turned, rising above him, ready to bring his propeller blades down into Dusty's hood. For an instant, the P-51 stood above the helpless Dusty, crushing him, but then his injured landing gear gave way and he lurched sideways, sliding off from atop the little plane. Dusty scrambled out from under him the rest of the way and turned back, fluid like watered down blood oozing all down his body from his back and tail. He stood his ground and waited.

Dusty watched Ripslinger steadily where he lay on the floor, now slick with both of their fluids, still expecting him to leap forward at any moment. Ripslinger was waiting for his usual goody-goody lecture about how they shouldn't be fighting, but Dusty was silent. He only looked at Ripslinger with that same expression that he had when he'd first attacked him earlier. He was actually starting to get unnerved by it now.

"It's always going to come to this isn't it?" Ripslinger panted, finally, using the pause to try and recover himself as fast as he could, but Dusty didn't reply. "So what now? I'm not going back in that cell, you can count on it." Nothing. "You'll answer me, damn it!" he snapped, but then, as he was able to get himself upright again, a thought came to him. "No? Are you sure you have nothing to say to me?" Ripslinger said slyly, looking pointedly in the direction of the crowd. He could see Dusty bristle and tense up as his control surfaces rose slightly.

"I'm warning you," his engine growled through his voice, and Clarice's breath was stolen away. She had never heard their sweet Dusty make such a noise, but Ripslinger scoffed.

"Or what? Or you'll kill me?" Some of the bystanders began retreating away, but a few of them tensed up in preparation. "Let me go now, and no one get's hurt. Now!" he shouted, getting ready to lunge for the nearest victim.

"Don't make me do it, Rip, just drop it!" Dusty shouted back, moving closer.

"Ha! You won't do a damn thing! You come any closer and I'll kill you. And I _know_ you won't kill me. What have I got to be afraid of?"

"Why can't you please just listen to me for once? Why?" Dusty demanded of him, his anger now replaced by rueful pain. Ripslinger was about to mock him when he continued. "Just stop it, now. Or I will make you." Dusty moved very close then, despite the danger, and somehow Ripslinger did not lash out. "You've put me through a lot of slag; don't you dare think I'm beyond this."

 _He's bluffing_ , Ripslinger thought. Wasn't he?

"But I don't _want_ to _hurt_ you. That's why I'm giving you this choice now. You either roll out of here and back to your hangar under your own power, or end up carted away under mine and Skipper's."

After a long, tense moment, with everyone holding their breath it seemed, Ripslinger chose. He closed his eyes and sagged into his damaged landing gear. He refused to suffer through the humiliation of being maneuvered like some helpless invalid back to his hangar. Wordlessly he turned and began to limp his way out of Honker's. The spectators scattered in his wake but he knew that Dusty was following close behind.

Once he had been locked in and was alone once more, Ripslinger laughed. He felt a strange combination of hate, disgust, and pride toward his former rival. _Well, bravo, Dusty. Bravo._

* * *

Looks like Dusty's taken Skipper's suggestion to heart and figured out how to handle Ripslinger finally. Bet you guys didn't know Dusty could fight, did ya? Seems like the little guy's really benefited from having the likes of Skipper as a Bonded Companion.


	7. Last Exit

Ripslinger anxiously eyed his surroundings. It was dark, cold, and dank down here. There were many other airplanes. They were all smaller models; he was by far the largest one there. They were all in cages too, some of them swaying idly in their prisons. Ripslinger, who was accustomed to sizing up other planes to see what they were good for, had the distinct feeling that a lot of those here were not far from the end of their powers. Beyond all hope. Some seem to have forgotten themselves completely, and float half-comatose through their nightmare like empty shells, their eyes hardly ever even opening anymore. Others became aggressive in their fear and despair, sometimes attacking the adjoining walls of the cages trying to get at their neighbors or charging at the front if someone new was brought in or being taken out. They were all still individuals, they would tell themselves. Everybody has their own way of coping. Yet, if aggression couldn't mend their troubles, then they often begin to drift toward the only other way out.

The dim, florescent lighting strained and hurt their eyes. Ripslinger squeezed his shut, trying to give them a respite, but then they snap open again at the sound of thrashing and someone starting to scream. They all looked on in horror as one of their own, a CF300 Prime, repeatedly bashes himself against the walls of his prison. Not to escape. But to end it. He just couldn't take it anymore. Everyone wanted a way out. He chose death as the brownish-black of the plane's life essence began splattering against the walls and floor of the cell. A cacophony of anguished cries began echoing about the room.

"No! Oh Chrysler, help us!" some cry out.

"Stop!" shout others desperately.

 _'Stop crying, please!'_ Riplsinger squeezed his eyes shut again and turned away.

But they were all afraid.

"Shut up! You should be happy for him!" A Cessna half-breed snarled.

The doomed CF300 finally collapses in a pool of his own vital fluids, his form mangled and crushed. He rose again, his nose slowly pointing up toward the ceiling and pausing, as if willing himself to remember what the sky and sun looked and felt like before crashing back down again.

"You mindless fucks can all rust away in here!" he growls, his wide, deranged eyes staring around as he laughs, gurgling and choking before finally falling still and silent.

Ripslinger turned away, eyes still closed, lightly bumping the side of his containment with the tip of his nose cone.

 _'I'm not getting out of here alive.'_

Ripslinger sucked in a breath through his intake as his eyes sprang open. He jumped up from his sleeping mat, dashing blindly forward until he hit a barrier. His engine snarled as he pushed, rearing up and scrabbling at the bars, biting at them before giving up. He felt a sobering fatigue come over him as he finally realized that he was awake, his eyes closing part way as he went back over to the sleeping mat, burying his nose under the blankets and shoveling them over his body to try and hide how he trembled.

Little did he know, Dusty was about to make his way in, but paused at the sight of what seemed like Ripslinger having another dysphoric episode. He stared as Ripslinger calmed down and hid under the blankets, his expression blank except for a shadow of weary concern.

XXxx

The last few days had been an absent-minded blur for Ripslinger, one simply just blending into the next. For once through this whole ordeal, he actually had some privacy at the moment. Both guards had gone somewhere and had yet to return. It was pointless, in his opinion, to be watched so closely. Despite his earlier actions it wasn't like he was going to chew through the bars. He'd hoped they stayed gone for a while so that he could languish away in peace instead of having to endure eyes constantly boring holes into him, although it was kind of fun to intimidate the in-room guard. What was his name? Martin... Mike … Mark, whatever. It was certainly more interesting than mindlessly playing solitaire for hours on end or sitting and trying to recall and replay every race he'd ever flown in his head. Although chess; he had yet to beat the little blue forklift. Whether he was begrudgingly impressed with her or disgusted with himself, he had yet to decide.

He wasn't sure what triggered it but since the fight he had some new visitors besides Clarice and Dusty. Dottie would come around at least once a day and they would play; the last two times had ended in a stalemate. Out of everyone, surprisingly, she seemed to have the least reservations around him. She had this casual aloofness that was a breath of fresh air compared to the seriousness of his other visitors, the Corsair by far being the worst.

Skipper had only come by twice, and the two would sit and make death threats and show their contempt for one another until by some weird turn of events a perfectly civil discussion would ensue. Topics were anything goes, but Ripslinger could always be counted upon to think up new and different ways to send the old warbird off in a rage at the end of each one.

Apart from Dusty, Clarice was his most frequent visitor. It didn't take Ripslinger long at all to discover her short temper. All it took was one wrong word or look to set her off. He could see why Dusty thought it was amusing to annoy her, although Ripslinger doubted he ever took it to the levels that he himself did whenever she came around. She was full of the same sentimental, idealistic nonsense that Dusty was constantly spouting off about, but thankfully, she just wasn't so mushy about it. Her often contemptible attitude seemed to balance that out rather nicely.

The girl currently in question, was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hangar, her back propped against the wall across from the front of Ripslinger's cell. A pencil was scratching and scribbling on paper for the last hour. If the P-51 had ears they would be bleeding. Behind seemingly relaxed lips, his teeth were sanding down on each other as he desperately attempted to use mind control to make that pencil break. He was facing away from her, but he was still monitoring every move she made from the corner of his eye.

"What are you writing about in there?" he finally asked.

"I'm not writing, I'm drawing," she answered without looking up, "Can you sit up a little more?"

"Nope."

"Don't be an asshole, sit up so that I can see you better."

"No."

Clarice sighed. Another long silence followed, and she ended it by clapping her sketchbook shut. Not closed, but shut; loud enough to make any normal bystander jump and look around at her clear demand for attention. To her disgrace, Ripslinger was not a normal bystander by any stretch of the imagination. Clarice's lips pinched together when he didn't even regard her with a glance. She stopped herself from chucking the sketchbook at him when she noticed that he seemed to be in deep thought.

 _But what about?_

She cleared her throat, hoping that he'd look at her, but he remained motionless. She cleared it louder, but then ended up straining her throat so much that it put her into a coughing fit. Somewhere along her choking Ripslinger spoke.

"What is it?" His voice wasn't harsh, but not an invitation for her to give him a long explanation either.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with."

"You looked worried and angry" Clarice raised her voice a little, so sue me for making that my 'concern.'"

He didn't back-talk her, just tightened his lips up more, closed his eyes, and slewed his body away from her.

"Why don't you go on home; it's late."

"You know you should really try looking at someone when you're talking to them." Clarice stuck her elbow into her knee and rested her chin in her palm, "You should also work on expressing your thoughts and feelings with others. You'd feel better."

"Not all of us can be Dusty Crophopper," he eventually murmured.

It was out of jealousy mingled with admiration, not dissing for once. Though Ripslinger being Ripslinger, no one would ever tell the difference because his voice seemed to have only one tone.

"Don't be like that," and Clarice honestly couldn't differentiate whether she sounded convincing or not, because she felt charmed and uncharmed by his aloof and cynical attitude. "You can open up to us. I know you don't feel like it but we're not your enemies, it's not like we're going to back-stab you with it or anything."

Then Ripslinger snapped around so fast that she had to eat her gasp back.

"I never agreed to being a part of your your stupid little gang!"

Even after everything, Ripslinger didn't exactly despise being a piece of her life, or any of the others, really, but to be grouped in with them was a life he'd never properly fit into. They were know-nothings who would never understand, know, and completely accept him or try to, but oddly this human girl seemed to have a sense of him. She seemed to accept him; try to understand, to want to get to know him. He simmered down.

"What is it that you truly want from me, of all people?" Ripslinger asked at length.

His whisper was thin but rough, and dizzyingly humid. Clarice reared her head back with her breath tight, still able to be unnerved by how fast the switch could flip with him, but at last drank it all in.

"I don't want a-anything from you..."

Clarice closed her mouth and stood confident to prove her fearlessness, but her twitching eyelids and shaking fingers spoke other lies.

"...Then what," Ripslinger's jaw clenched. "is it? The way you talk to me..." he spat. "...The way you look at me," he squinted, slowly turning with his eyes remaining locked on her to exaggerate his disgusted confusion. "Dusty may deign to give himself away and by extension the rest of us, but I will not, will _not_ be another accessory for your obsessive studying and speculations to circulate around, human."

Clarice had been squeezing the life out of her arm in an effort to keep her mindful and in the present, yet soon enough she released it to let it breathe.

"...Don't flatter yourself..." Clarice's fists shook at her thighs. "You think that's what I want? How hopeless a chase would that be? That's not what I want from you, of you, or to make of you!"

Ripslinger's curiosity won the war against his upside down smile and evaporated his expression into anxiousness.

"I just want to help," Clarice dropped her shoulders and shook her head tiredly. "We all do."

After scrutinizing her for ten seconds, Ripslinger closed his eyes and frowned deeper.

"...It's not up to you to save me."

"I know that," Clarice didn't need to think about her counter to that statement. "It's your job to save yourself, and only you can do that, but I'd like to help you-"

"Clarice." He cut her off and yet, his throat did not growl with any trace of hate.

Her eyes climbed up to him. The usual line of emotion on his face was still there, but it had deflated some, and was even a bit strained into an old sorrow and old pain adapted into angry agony.

"What will you do? How can you help me?" he nearly hissed as he asked the second question. "How can a human do for me what no plane has ever been able to do? Because what can an outsider preach? What can a little girl who knows nothing about the misery, suffering, loss, and damnation forced down my throat to swallow every day of my life possibly give to me?"

She felt his harsh breath on her as he spoke. It was so hot and dank and the fumes from it made her nose itch, made her feel light-headed, feeling like it burned holes into her very clothes until it scalded her skin. Clarice had become so impassioned and caught up in the moment that she hadn't noticed how close she was to the bars now, or how Ripslinger had been slowly creeping forward like a snake. Her eyes sped up and down his face before she swallowed hard.

"Then tell us!" she finally burst out, "Help us understand! Tell us what happened to you so that we can help you!"

Too close. Before she could even blink, Ripslinger had snatched her arm in his mouth and pulled her through the bars and into his cell with him. Before she could even cry out to the guard outside, he had her pinned between his nose cone and the wall of the hangar, knocking the wind out of her and preventing her from drawing breath.

"Now this is familiar isn't it?" he asked her coldly, ignoring her fruitless attempts to get free. "Should I kill you now, or should I take my time?" He slid her further up the wall to where her feet dangled. "What do you think?" He eased up on her ever so lightly. Just enough to where she could breath, but barely enough to speak. "You know what they kept telling me in that hellish dungeon? That we don't have souls, and yet what is it that they're looking for and trying to destroy when they cut into us, taking us apart bit by bit?"

"... Let... go..." She gasped, trying in vain to pry him away, still seeing stars from when the back of her head hit the wall as Ripslinger continued to stare straight into her wild, terrified eyes.

"Tell me, do you have a soul?" He crushed her further into the wall and she swore she heard something crack. "Do you?!" he snarled. "I don't see one... If I slice you open, will I find it?"

Clarice could feel her blood pressure rising as it pounded in her ears, blackness starting to close in around the margins of her sight.

"All your preachy nonsense doesn't amount to very much now, does it? Would you still try to lecture me if I allowed you the breath to do so? Or would you just start screaming for help? You and I both know what that would lead to, if they came rushing in here to see me in the midst of tearing you to pieces. Dusty would make good on that threat he made during our little fight."

Clarice could only mouth the word "What?"

"I suppose you must hate me," Ripslinger continued flatly. Glaring up at her, he saw the confusion in her eyes. "You must have always hated me. I've been out to kill Dusty, and you from the very moment we met. And probably still will. It's been a long time coming I guess..." he finished quietly.

"No..." Clarice breathed out, afraid of what Ripslinger was getting at.

"Why?" he asked her simply, releasing more pressure so that she could answer properly.

"Because... It would hurt Dusty too much, even if you are a threat," she panted, "After all you've been through, what must have happened to you to make you like this... If it came down to that... it would break him."

Ripslinger pondered this over for a few moments, and then allowed Clarice to slide back down to the floor, but continued to keep her pinned. His lids fell heavily over his eyes and his expression melted into somber bitterness as his eyes looked away.

"I wish you had never rescued me," he said quietly. "I wish you had left me with the Cutters. I admit it... I admit that I have been deceived. You should feel pretty proud of yourself. I honestly thought you truly kept coming in here for me. But now I see that it was just for him."

"No, Ripslinger... it-"

He pressed her into the wall and cut her off again.

"I was a fool, but I knew that... You never cared about me. I'm sick of your lies. Now I want you to get out, and I never want to see you again. And this time..." he pushed harder, "I mean it..."

With that, he let her go, grabbing her by the arm again and tossing her away from him where she went thudding and sprawling out on the floor of the hangar. Clarice crawled to her knees, choking and coughing as her throat became irritated with her overcompensated attempts to restore her oxygen levels to normal. She was actually stunned that she was alive after that, but even more shocking was what he had been implying, and what little he had told her of his time at the mercy of the Cutters.

As soon as she had collected herself enough, Clarice fled the hangar. Ripslinger glared at the door after her. A moment later the cowed guard was pushed into the room by his coworker. He looked up once only to get hit with the same iron stare and then looked back down to the floor again, fidgeting furiously.

For some reason unknown to him, Ripslinger found this funny. Incredibly funny. Hilarious. He found himself starting to laugh and soon he couldn't stop. The guard outside shifted on his wheels uncomfortably, while the poor in-room guard was getting ready to flee altogether as the laughter began to take on a hysterical note. After several moments of hard, unstable laughing, he stopped abruptly and fell dead silent.

He had realized that he was never getting out of here now. He would be stuck in this cell for the rest of his life after that. Even if he did everything they wanted, they would never trust him enough to release him. And what would be the point of trying to get out now, anyway? He had lost his freedom, his ability to fly, his dignity, his damn privacy, he thought as he glared at the guard again. What did he have left? What was there worth living for? At first he thought "revenge", but then the question of "how" came to mind, which was followed by "what for?" Then Ripslinger thought desperately, "Dusty", but then the others came to mind. Dusty had his people, his little pet human. He didn't need him. No. He was truly alone, as he had been for so long. And try as he might, he could not think of a single thing worth living for.

"Hey, you," he called out to the guard.

"Y-yes?"

"You look like you would rather not be in here."

"No... Honestly I wouldn't."

"Then why don't you go and do us both a favor then?"

"Huh?"

"You don't enjoy my company and after all that laughing, I'm a little thirsty, but I'm sick of just oil or sink water. Go and get me something else."

"I don't know... I know he wouldn't really care if I left," Mike said, motioning toward the doors to the hangar. "But I'm not really supposed to go anywhere."

"Oh, really?" Ripslinger rolled closer to the front of the cell, leering at him. "Then why don't you go tell _him_ to go get me something while we sit and enjoy each others company," Ripslinger finished, his voice low and dangerous as he gave an unsettling smile.

"N-no!" Mike's resolve instantly crumbled. "I'll do it! Anything in particular you want?"

Ripslinger actually took a second to think.

"Coffee," he decided. "Iced coffee, and none of that instant garbage, you hear me?"

"Yes!" Mike yelped before skidding out the door.

The hunt for even that kind of a drink should keep the guard away for sometime in this town. Not too long, but hopefully just long enough for what he knew had to be done now. Ripslinger went over and grabbed his sleeping mat and blankets, starting to pull them away from the far left corner of the cell. No one had noticed it because of its out of the way location, that, and he always had the blankets thrown over it, but all those times he had taken his fury out on the bars had warped them in that spot. And there, the metal had been broken and pulled back in a sharp, twisted jag.

Slowly, Ripslinger lowered down, pressing the underside of his wing to the sharp metal, but then hesitated for a moment. He had thought about it before, but had never really gone through with it. He had always had something to keep him going, but not anymore. So why not do it? Why not end it all, the dreams, the flash-backs, the crippling fits he was plagued by? Everything else had been taken from his control; the only choice he had left now was the choice to live or die.

"Why the hell not?" he calmly said to himself as he savagely ran his wing across the broken spike.

Wincing, he quickly grabbed and pulled the sheets over to him to keep the resulting spray somewhat contained so that anyone looking inside wouldn't notice right away. He repeated the action, dragging his other wing over the jag of metal. The feeling of the seemingly muted, yet sharp and tingling pain and the wet warmth of his fluids slowly drenching the sheets all around him was strangely liberating, Ripslinger thought in a distantly bemused way. He flexed his flaps and ailerons, encouraging the fluids to flow out faster.

It didn't seem real, what he had just done. Like he was some formless presence looking down on the scene. Close yet separate; detached yet connected. The ever widening pool of straw-colored and red fluids mixing together on the floor threatened to spread out to where someone looking in would easily see. He pulled the blankets onto the floor to try to curb them. How much longer would it take, he wondered wearily as he slowly sank down to the floor, half on and half off of the sleeping mat. He suddenly felt so tired, and he was starting to feel short of breath...

* * *

Everybody holding up okay after that? Because this chapter only marks the start to the nightmare roller coaster that this story turns into. Fasten your seatbelts, folks, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.


	8. A Deal With the Devil

Clarice sat outside of Dottie's garage, waiting until she quit shaking from both fear and rage. Her arm was becoming severely bruised from where Ripslinger had gripped it in his teeth and she was sure that she had a few bruised ribs as well. _That's twice now,_ she thought angrily as she petted the cat in her lap a bit too harshly, the skin pulling back comically from its face. If he dared to do that one more time, she was going to sneak in there while he was sleeping and rip out his boy parts. But still, despite how angry she was at him she couldn't help but feel horribly sorry for him at the same time.

She thought about what he'd said with a shudder. _'Dusty would make good on that threat he made during our little fight...'_ Was he just testing her, or did Ripslinger honestly want Dusty to come in there and kill him? The thought left an unsettling feeling in her stomach. That just didn't seem like him. What she would have expected him to do was to use her in some way to get out of the cell, then kill her and anyone else who stood in his way as he escaped, but instead he had ended up letting her go free. Something wasn't right. She stroked the cat more gently in apology and then set it down on the ground before standing up. She had to go tell Dusty about what happened.

The doors to his hangar were open to let in the late spring breeze as he dozed under a pile of blankets. He always seemed to smother himself like that whenever he slept alone. Clarice stepped inside, slightly winded after running all the way there from the garage.

"Dusty..." she pushed on him gently. "Dusty, wake up, something's wrong. Please..."

"Mmwhat?" the crop-duster-turned-racer mumbled, his voice a bit husky with sleep as he turned toward her.

He yawned, giving Clarice a good look at how his teeth, similar to a humans in the front, turned sharp, pointed, and peg-like toward the back of his jaws. Then he did a double take once he'd noticed her arm and jumped up, blankets falling off of him.

"Clarice! What in the world happened to your arm?" he asked, gently tracing the tip of his nose cone over the growing bruises, then his expression darkened when he thought he recognized where they might be from. "Who did this to you?"

"Who do you think? But that's not important right now," Clarice quickly said, awkwardly pulling her arm away. "There's something wrong with Ripslinger. I think you should go talk to him."

"Wait, what? Are you saying _he_ did this to you? That's it..." he muttered as he shook the rest of the blankets off of him. "he's had it!"

"No, Dusty- You're not listening to me!" Clarice said frantically, trying to stop him. "There's like something seriously wrong with him. He tried to get me to kill him!

That stopped him.

"He what?" Dusty questioned, his breath suddenly gone.

"He grabbed me; I got too close. He had me pinned against the wall and was saying all this weird stuff and that if I screamed you'd come in and kill him. He said it like he wanted you to do it."

"Then what happened?" asked Dusty.

"Nothing. He just ended up letting me go."

Dusty looked stunned for a moment as he thought about what Clarice had just told him.

"Come on," he said, "This has me really worried now."

As they headed for the hangar, Dusty asked her about everything that was said and done. She told him, struggling to keep up and narrate everything back to him at the same time. As they approached Ripslinger's hangar, they saw the outside guard, Tommy, idly flipping through a book. He looked up as they came up to him.

"Oh hey, you two. Ready for another argument, I see. Go ahead in, the other guy's out for the moment."

"Out? You mean Ripslinger was left alone?" Dusty demanded.

"Hey, I'm right here. What's he gonna do anyway? Besides, Mike hasn't been gone too long."

"How long?" Clarice asked.

"I dunno," Tommy shrugged.

Dusty swore under his breath as opened the doors to the hangar without knocking and went inside, Clarice a second behind him. Dusty didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't to see Ripslinger laying quietly in his corner.

"Rip?" he hesitantly spoke to the still figure, who's front half was resting on the end of the sleeping mat.

If if weren't for the odd place and position he was in, it seem as if he were asleep.

"You're not sleeping; I know you're not!" Clarice tried.

No response. Clarice watched as Dusty undid the locks on the cell door and slowly crept inside. There was an odd smell in the air; like gasoline and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Rip?" Dusty called out again, coming a little closer.

The smell kept getting stronger. The anxiety mounted on Dusty's face as he came around to the foot of the sleeping mat, and then he suddenly cried out in shock and horror. The blankets all around him were wet through in fuel and hydraulic fluid, staining them.

"Ah! Oh god, ugh!"

He pulled some of them away to reveal where the damage was, more vital fluids leaking out onto the floor as they were pushed away by the blankets and sheets, so soaked that they couldn't absorb any more. It was suddenly everywhere, all around them. Deep gashes ran the length of the underside of both of Ripslinger's wings. Dusty leaned down on his landing gear beside him, hoping and praying that he wasn't too late. By some miracle he was still alive, but his breathing was so _shallow_...

"Go get Dottie! Hurry!" Dusty cried out to Clarice, who had been keeping her distance by the door.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"He's slashed his wings! Just go!" Dusty tried not to panic.

Clarice ran from the hangar, while the guard just stood there in dumb shock. Quickly, Dusty was taking the soaked sheets and shoving them up into the open wounds on Ripslinger's wings, halting the weak flow.

"Oh, please don't die..."

XXxx

Ripslinger stood in a seemingly endless, blinding sea of white. And he was all alone. He slowly looked around at the barrenness around him. Someone had been singing. That's what woke him up. It was that same stupid song that he had grown to hate in the days after the accident but had eventually forgotten. He had told whoever it was to stop it, his voice echoing, and it did, abruptly. And then, for some reason, he suddenly felt guilty.

Then a colossal black shape came rolling up from the depths of whiteness out of the corner of his eye. The P-51 did a double take, and then jumped back and cried out in fear. Why was _that_ thing here?! Why would it appear to him again? Now? After all these years? He didn't believe in ghosts, an afterlife, or anything supernatural, but here it was, the creature keeping itself just on the outside of his peripheral vision, prowling around like a shark. The feeling of fear and confusion was quickly washed away and replaced with a fleeting rage as he struck out at it when it swung passed him a little closer.

 _"Go away!"_ he shouted at it, shrinking back into himself and trembling, afraid. _"I want nothing to do with you!"_

The huge, black thing stopped, leaning down on it's nose gear and turning it's long, thin body slightly to the side as if it were being admonished. It continued to stare at him out of unblinking, piercing red eyes that glowed with a light that gave no light.

 _"You're just like the rest of them!"_ the checker-marked Mustang continued shakily, _"Nothing but lies! You just come flying in like a Bearcat out of hell and save my life only to abandon me again just as quickly!"_

The beast continued its pacing, its engines constantly hissing feverishly, the noise steadily waxing and waning on whether or not it was moving or still. Hydraulic fluid was sickeningly slicked all over the front of its body, just as he remembered it the first night he'd seen it, the red fluid dripping off onto the ground only to be diluted and absorbed into the stainless white of the environment. The horrifying construct had indeed saved him from a certain, cruel death long ago, but only to go on and continue to haunt his dreams and consciousness from there after. But all those other times, it had never fully shown itself again after that first time, leaving Ripslinger confused as to whether or not he had really dreamt of it. Even then he wasn't altogether sure he hadn't hallucinated the whole incident. And never before had it ever spoke, but it was surely speaking now.

 ** _"Come then... I'll take you now... To a place that you fear..."_**

The creature's voice was like that of water falling into pools in the deep, echoing places of dark caves, and sounded almost distorted. There was an odd, intermittent rattling as it spoke that punctuated the ceaseless hissing of its engines, a bit like how you might imagine a rattlesnake would sound if it could speak.

 _"What? … What are you saying?"_ Ripslinger asked, confused.

 ** _"You turn away from everyone that would care to help you out of the dark. I shall make you understand."_**

Ripslinger stared up at it, his olive-colored eyes frightened and wide with bewilderment and apprehension. The red eyes only stared stared back at him, enigmatic, and fully untouched by any emotion.

Xxxx

The dream slowly faded away, but the haze of white remained. Ripslinger blinked a few times, trying to clear his eyes, and soon realized that the whiteness he was seeing were fluorescent garage lights hanging overhead. Disoriented, he tried to take in his surroundings. No bars. He wasn't in his cell anymore, but he was restrained. He tried to lift up a bit to see what was holding him, but found that he lacked any strength to do so. Had he been drugged again? Then he remembered. What he had done. A dull, aching throb seemed to flare up in his wings at the thought of his attempted suicide. _Attempted._

He had failed. He wanted to cry at his helplessness; he didn't even have a choice about his own life anymore. He fought hard against the tears. It had been years. Years, since he'd last cried, and he wasn't about to start now. Ripslinger closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight back the surge of emotion. To distract himself he looked around more at his surroundings. He couldn't sit up, he could barely even raise his nose. But he could turn a bit to see what was on either side of him. There wasn't much to his left. Just a lot of boxes of different sizes, and different parts and tools. With great effort, he turned and looked in the other direction, and what he saw surprised him.

Dusty was asleep, sitting beside him, slouched down into his landing gear. Against the far wall, Dottie was leaning up against Chug, both of them also fast asleep. Skipper sat in the corner, snoring softly while Clarice lay curled up in the crook of his folded wing.

 _Why?_ Ripslinger wondered. Why were they all in here? Why were they all sleeping in those horribly uncomfortable positions when they could be asleep in their own hangars? There was no need to watch him, he was far too weak to get himself free. Why here? With him? Puzzled, the green and black plane's eyes turned up to the ceiling, trying to shake the hangovers from his dream. It was just a dream, he desperately thought. Just a dream...

XXxx

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up," A quiet voice next to him said as Ripslinger returned to consciousness once more.

He didn't remember falling back to sleep. Just the dream. Confused, Ripslinger looked for the speaker. The others that were in the room earlier had all left, leaving only himself and Dusty, who was standing off to the side, facing him.

"This feels familiar," Ripslinger muttered, testing out his restraints again. At least he hadn't been drugged. "How long?"

"It's been three days now," Dusty answered. "I actually expected you to wake up sooner."

Ripslinger refused to look at him. The quiet, unassuming tone that Dusty had was beginning to eat at him. Why wasn't he being lectured? Or hell, told off for what he had done to Clarice? Anything but the silence that hung over them now.

"Well?" Ripslinger started.

"Well what?"

"Don't you have something to say to me?" asked Ripslinger, swallowing hard, his focus never wavering from the ceiling.

"... No. Like you said, I talk to much. It's kind of a bad habit I have whenever I get uncomfortable."

"Hmm."

"You, however, are the complete opposite. You fold in on yourself when you're hurting and refuse to let anyone help."

"And I suppose that's _also_ a bad thing?"

"No. It's just really sad. Although I'm one to talk I guess..."

"Look," said Ripslinger, starting to get angry. "Quit talking to me like I'm going to break. Yell at me like I know you want to. Swear at me! Just anything but this. I don't want yours or anyone else's pity. I was happier when you all hated me..."

"Happier? Ripslinger, being hated never brought anyone happiness. Maybe some kind of vindictive pleasure but not happiness."

"And what would you know..." Ripslinger snapped at him before he was interrupted.

"I'd say I know plenty about it. I don't think I've ever really been hated, but I got a lot of flak for entering the Wings Around the Globe rally. Maybe they were right too. I was crazy; I had no experience, hardly the training or specs that anyone else racing had."

"Hmph."

"But I kept on anyway, and I'm glad of it too."

"So now you're going to lecture me on what I tried to do. That suicide isn't the answer? How I should hope and always strive for a better tomorrow or whatever?"

"Not if you don't want me to. Just please tell me one thing Rip... Why?"

"Why not, Dusty?! I have nothing to live for, so why not? Why..." he trailed off, turning away.

Dusty was quiet a moment before continuing.

"And if you had something worth living for, what would it be?"

"I... I... I don't know, Dusty, what does it matter anyway?! I don't care!" His voice was getting thick with emotion as once again he could think of nothing.

"You know, Clarice told me all about what you told her. About the Cutters and everything."

"Should have minded her own business..."

"Well if she hadn't, you wouldn't be here right now. After what happened she came to me. I saw what you did to her and I tried to be angry and she wouldn't let me."

"What?"

"She put her little foot down and demanded that I go check up on you. She was really concerned for you."

"I don't care... She should have left me alone. She shouldn't have pretended... Not like... I... I... J-just let me go! Let me go now!" Ripslinger cried out as he struggled weakly against the restraints, furiously embarrassed by the tears now streaming freely from his eyes. "Just let me go... Let me go..." he sobbed out, turning as far as he could away from Dusty, trying in vain to hide his face from him.

Then he turned back in surprise when he felt his restraints being undone. Freed, he tried to sit up a little higher, only to have his wings scream at him for being so suddenly put under pressure. Dusty moved forward to help support him. Ripslinger tried once again to stop the offending tears from falling, but that only seemed to cause more to fall. And more. And more until he finally gave up and wept openly, no longer caring about how long it had been or that he had company in this pitiable state. What dignity did he have left? He could do this now. He could cry.

Having Dusty embrace into him a little tighter only made him cry harder, and the occasional splash of wetness against the left side of his face and wing told him that Dusty was crying as well. Only he was crying silently in contrast to Ripslinger's pained sobs. Some time later, he didn't know how long, he had finally calmed down to where the tears had eased up and his breathing contained only the occasional hitch. Dusty had still not let go of him, and Ripslinger did not try to force him away.

"Rip?" Dusty asked hesitantly once he was sure that he was truly finished.

"What?"

"I've been thinking of something," Dusty began. "I want you to please hear me out. I don't expect an answer from you right away, but will you please at least think about it?"

"What is it?" asked Ripslinger, staring miserably down on the floor.

"One year. One year is all I'm asking of you. If I let you out of that cell and you stay with us for one year, I'll let you go free," Dusty finished, pulling away from him.

"What do you mean?"

"Just stay with us. See what the "slow life" is like. It's really not that bad, actually. Really try to get used to being around and interacting with people. We'll be right here to help you with those fits you have sometimes; you won't be going this alone. Do that, and I'll let you go and never lock you up again. You'll be free to do whatever you want. I won't go hunting you down; nothing. But you have to try for me, please? You're a lot more patient than I am; how bad can one year be? Hmm?"

"And how do you know I won't just try to escape again the first chance I get?"

"Because, you may not believe this, but I do have faith in you. And if you do try to get away, I guess the deal would be broken and then I _would_ have to hunt you down."

"Not if I killed you," Ripslinger sniffed.

"... Well, if you do kill me, I have just one thing that I'll beg of you."

"And what's that?"

"Just leave the others alone. Please?"

"... Just one year?"

"Yes. Just one."

"... Why? Why take the risk? For all you know I could kill all of your friends and then leave you alone to die of misery. Why would you take that kind of risk for me? All I've ever shown you has been hatred... Cruelty... Why do you care?"

"I can't really give you a reason. All I can tell you is that I do. And the others; they're willing too. Everything's already been decided. For their own safety I tried to push them away, but they refuse. If anything that should prove to you that they care too."

"Why?"

"Maybe you should ask them that."

"No... You people don't make any sense to me. It wouldn't matter how hard I tried, I'll never understand you all..." Ripslinger sighed deeply, staring down at the floor again.

"Well, like I said, you don't have to answer right away. Just please..."

So this was it. He had nothing to live for. He was nothing now. He had nothing to gain, nothing to lose.

"... Why the hell not?"

* * *

And end part one. Well folks, here we are. This is where the REAL trials begin, and Dusty seems hell-bent on seeing Ripslinger redeemed, but at what cost?


	9. Gun-Shy

It was a few days before Ripslinger was deemed strong enough to leave the confines of Dottie's garage, but he was still incredibly weak from the combination of starvation and fluid loss. Most airplanes almost always _look_ healthy from the outside, which is why they only _seem_ to be prone to suddenly sicken and die within a matter of days, but Ripslinger truly looked in a frightful state. Any mechanic worth their salt knew that girth measurements were a rather inadequate method of determining weight loss in aircraft, you needed a proper scale to catch it early, which made Ripslinger's condition particularly shocking. His flanks had sunken in almost to the point of being able to visualize the bulge of where his fuel tanks were in his fuselage just above and a little further back than the wings.

His body was still assimilating all the new hoses and the massive amount of fluids that had been replaced, and his movements would sutter and turn jerky if he maneuvered too quickly. Sometimes he would even collapse, pain and exhaustion not doing anything for his incoordination. His flaps also had yet to realize that he had proper fluid pressure back, and hung down, limply, from the aft of his wings.

Ripslinger's first day out of confinement had seen Dusty practically glued to him, never letting him out of his sight as he made him tag along with him wherever he went. Ripslinger deliberately refused to look at any of the others; they all tried to remain focused on their day-to-day activities, but were also all monitoring him from the corners of their eyes, and this did not escape the P-51's attention. He didn't have to look at them directly to be able to know that they were watching him. It was very tense, and hardly anybody said a word.

Sleeping arrangements were just as awkward. Dusty was the first to offer up to share his own hangar, even though it wasn't exactly built for two planes, let alone two planes of unequal sizes. Even after initial objections; Ripslinger because he was accustomed to sleeping alone, and Skipper because he didn't want Dusty sleeping alone in the same room with Ripslinger, the offer stood, especially after an acidic look from Ripslinger after Dusty threw out the option of him just sleeping back in the old hangar.

Ripslinger situated himself as far away from Dusty as possible, and his engine would emit that infamous hiss-snarl when the smaller plane tried to cuddle up to him, sending him scooting away hurriedly back to his side of the hangar. The first night went without incident, but ironically the next morning had Dusty fighting to get Ripslinger to come out of the hangar.

"Hey, I thought you agreed that you were going to try!"

"I said I'd go along with your little deal, but I refuse to sit quietly and be treated like that."

"Like what?"

"You know exactly what! You saw them all yesterday, hell, you're doing it too. They all act hesitant around me, and it's not because they feel threatened anymore, but because they're all scared to death that I'm going to fall apart any second. Like I said, I don't want anyone's pity. I will _not_ tolerate being treated like I'm frail just because of these," he ended, looking toward and gesturing from one wing to the other, the cauterizing marks still fresh.

"Oh, come on Rip, you have to see it from their point of view too. They're just as unsure of how to handle the situation as you." Ripslinger opened his mouth to object but Dusty beat him to it, "Yes, they all agreed to this that it was the best course of action, but they really don't know how to act toward you."

"They didn't seem to have a problem with it when I was behind bars."

"And you're not exactly behaving like you normally do either. Just give it a little bit and things wont seem to awkward and tense. Please?"

"Well how to they _want_ me to act, Dusty?" Ripslinger started to become visibly upset now, "What, do they want me to go back to -"

Ripslinger stopped, unable to speak anymore without the threat of breaking down in tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing as he shrunk into himself a bit. Dusty moved to comfort him, but the larger racer shrugged him off weakly and moved away from him.

"No... No, I'm okay, I just..." he tripped over his words, his breath hitching as he fought the tears back. "I'm just really tired and my wings hurt and my tanks feel like they're turning themselves inside out and I just need a breather, okay?"

"Are you hungry?" Dusty asked, perking up at the mention of Ripslinger's tanks, "Do you want another can of CCP?"

"No... Stuff's gross..."

"I know it's gross but it's the safest thing for you to eat right now until your healthy enough for your system to handle burning something more substantial. At least have two of them for me today, okay? And I'll talk to the others."

"Fine. And when you do I want you to make it explicitly clear that I do not want them to feel sorry for me. I can't take that slag..."

"Okay," Dusty said gently, his expression soft and empathetic, "Now, come on, Rip," he continued as he ducked down and slid his frame underneath Ripslinger's chin, making him lift up and hold his nose a little higher, and this time the Mustang didn't try to push him away. "Let's go."

The rest of the group seemed to have fewer reservations upon their approach this time, but lunch went on with little conversation. Ripslinger tucked into a can of CCP as promised, sucking down the thick, milk-like substance while fighting down his gag reflex; ironically the consistency was supposed to help weakened patients swallow it down easier so that they don't choke on it. Nobody really knew what to say, the situation was just too new. Afterward, when everybody went to go back to whatever work they had been doing that day, Ripslinger hung back.

"What's up?" Dusty asked, turning back. "Aren't you coming?"

"In a minute. I would like to have a word with you," Ripslinger said, turning to look at Clarice, "in private first."

A wave of unease ran through the group, but Clarice waved them off.

"It's alright, guys, I'll catch up in a sec."

They eventually moved off, reluctantly, and then human and plane were alone, staring at each other in silence for a moment before Ripslinger spoke.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he began, flatly, "I know that Dusty's taking it easy on me now, but as time goes on he's going to get pushier about these things, and to save myself the annoyance of him nagging me night and day I would like to apologize if I hurt you." Clarice was knocked speechless; this was not what she expected him to talk to her about. "And because I know he'll press about this too, I would like to thank you as well for making him come and check on me. You saved my life."

"...I don't really know what to say, Rip," Clarice finally managed.

"I don't expect you to say anything. And I already told you not to take it the wrong way."

"If you insist. But for the record, apology accepted," Clarice said, smiling softly, "and you're welcome.

XXxx

Ripslinger stood outside in the trees on the outskirts of the airport, leaning heavily against one that he'd picked out as his favorite. He was savoring a rare moment to himself as he closed his eyes, taking in the sun and feeling the wind go through his propeller blades. It was a sensation he'd all but forgotten during his time in the underground bunkers of the Cutters, and more recently when he was kept locked up here in that hangar. Despite the sometimes harsh sun and wind that could leave your plating raw, he was spending an increasing amount of time outside during the last few days.

Things were slowly gaining some equilibrium, he supposed. The others were becoming more relaxed and natural around him, although they still held a certain degree of caution. _As well they should_ , he thought. Perhaps the way things were going was tolerable, although it was certainly not enjoyable. He did not relish living with these people, but he would honor the agreement. If anything just to spite those that thought he couldn't do it.

In reality, though, the real reason that he went along with this facade of coexistence for the moment was that he felt... lost. Until he found direction, until he found his own way again, he would continue to follow along with them. He would anchor himself to them until he was strong enough to fight the tide on his own, as he had been used to, even after Ned and Zed were signed on by his managers, at first to simply serve as companions for him after they had become worried about his increasingly despondent behavior after his first racing season. It had been a little shaky and awkward at first, but the twin Zivkos were quick studies in learning to read Ripslinger's very subtle tells, although not without a fair bit of trial and error. It was a feat that had been accomplished by few planes, to say the least. It had been a pleasant change at first, but it wore off quickly, and while Ned and Zed were affectionate and well-tuned in to his moods and preferences, Ripslinger rarely, if ever, returned any of it.

The sound of a larger plane approaching pulled Ripslinger from his reveries. He didn't turn to see who it was, just waited for the intruder to either join him or leave. He tried to repress a sigh of frustration as whoever it was chose the former.

Skipper rolled up beside him and stopped. He stared at Ripslinger for a long moment, and the P-51 stared right back, then looked back out over the shimmering tarmac.

"I thought I might find you here," Skipper finally said.

"Really? And why were you looking for me?" Ripslinger asked him.

"Ever since this little... deal began, I've been watching you."

"I've noticed."

"And while Dusty may have a bit more experience than me in being around you, he's still a little naive."

"Ain't that the truth..." Ripslinger muttered wryly, his gaze still pointed toward the runway.

"I've also noticed that he's been getting a bit too relaxed around you. My point is, you're not fooling me, Rip. Nobody changes their ways that easily; _I_ should know." Ripslinger finally turned to look at him, and the two warbirds glared at one another. "The others may be getting used to you now, and I'll play along with this little game as long as you do, but just know one thing: the moment you even _think_ about turning on us, your aft is mine. And this time I won't be holding back."

"Good," Ripslinger said as he pushed off his tree, grinning slyly, "I wouldn't have it any other way," he concluded darkly, heading back toward town.

XXxx

Inevitably, the day came when Ripslinger decided to give everyone a heart attack by disappearing. He was simply nowhere to be found and Dusty was in full panic mode at all of the horrible possibilities that could be occurring.

"Well where else could he be? He couldn't have just flown off, he can't move his flaps!" Dusty was fretting.

Clarice watched everybody scurry about, with less urgency than the rest of them. Not that she wasn't worried, but she was also sure that he was somewhere obvious that none of them would have thought to check. It was with that thought in mind that Clarice happened to look over at Ripslinger's old hangar on the other side of the runway. Now he _really_ couldn't possibly be in there. But then again, maybe that was the same reason that he was.

Without telling anyone else of her suspicions, she began to walk toward the hangar. It was just as still, quiet, rough-looking as when they had first started using it to house Ripslinger. One of the doors was still open slightly. As Clarice came closer to the hangar, she stepped in something slick and slipped a little. She looked down to find that she'd stepped in a small puddle of a strange, jet-black liquid, the tar-like substance covering her sneaker. As she drew her gaze back up, she spotted more little drips and drops and puddles of the obsidian fluid leading up to the doors of the hangar.

Clarice sucked in a quiet breath through her nose, grimacing slightly. Was he having another one of those awful episodes again? She stopped just outside the door. She thought she could hear noises coming from inside. She opened the door further and slipped inside.

The lights inside the hangar had been left off. Clarice peered around, and thought that she could just barely make out the outline of Ripslinger's form from the light shining from outside where she had left the doors open. He had shut himself inside the cage that they had yet to take down. His frame shook uncontrollably as his breaths came out ragged with pain. He seemed unable to stay on or even get to his landing gear. Without thinking or any hesitation Clarice slipped through the bars and into the cage with him.

"Rip?" she called out to him softly.

Ripslinger rose up from the ground as his engine began to growl roughly, the bass in it reminiscent of a tiger. He turns, giving Clarice a glare that told her that he still had some semblance of lucidity within him, which she took as her cue to try again.

"Rip? Are you okay?"

Her words almost seem to hit him like a physical blow as another wave of pain popped and snapped through his body. He sank back down to the floor, trembling as Clarice started moving toward him. He shrank back at her approach.

"Don't touch me..." he ground out, his voice seeming to come through his engine as the time he'd trapped Dottie in the cage with him, making it sound grotesque and unnatural. "Leave me alone..."

"No, I'm not going away!" Clarice protested stubbornly. "I'm not leaving you in here like this by yourself!"

With great effort, Ripslinger lifted his body up again, his jaws dripping with the same viscous, black fluid that Clarice had stepped in earlier as he spoke.

"You'll never learn your lesson until I've killed you... You'll be the death of me yet, girl..."

"Please..." Clarice pressed, going even closer. "It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you."

"It's not me you should be worried about..."

"Rip, please!"

Clarice had but to just barely close her hand on the tip of Ripslinger's wing to hear a snarl explode from his engine as he abruptly swung around and charged. Clarice ran from the cage as he clumsily chased her, stumbling on his landing gear before crashing into the bars, unable to stop himself.

He slid down, miserably riding out the rest episode, struggling desperately to keep his mind present even as his body quaked and jerked in agony.

XXxx

The next day, Ripslinger once again finds himself in the shop with Dottie running a check up on him. Despite his disgust of it, the CCP seemed to be doing some good, as he'd put on a few pounds but would have to stay on it for a little while longer yet. His flaps however, were still healing at an unusually slow rate as Dottie tested them by pinching here and there with a pair of pliers, only receiving a low-level response and Ripslinger reporting mild discomfort and pressure.

"Are you sure," she asked, "I'm squeezing these really hard, and that's all you can feel?"

"Yes, that's what I just said!" Ripslinger replied, getting snappy in his embarrassment at how useless he felt.

He lay outside, now, in the cool, evening grass, half-dozing and half watching the activities of the rest of the group as they enjoyed the evening as well. His focus was currently on Dusty and Chug as they messed around in front of Skipper's hangar. They had Metallica's Justice for All album playing in the background on the stereo, and Dusty had found Skipper's leather helmet and had put it on, telling Chug to go find something to throw at him. He found a wooden chuck and was poised with it as Dusty readied himself.

"Wait, hang on... Okay I'm ready."

Dusty shut his eyes tight as Chug tossed the chuck at his canopy where it went clunking harmlessly off of it and onto the ground as they both laughed.

"Okay, okay, now this time throw it harder."

They stopped for a moment to appreciate the music before continuing their game, nodding along until the breakdown for "One" started and then Dusty started dancing around in a cute, happy, completely unfitting way, making Chug laugh.

Ripslinger watched, one of his propellers flicking in humor as a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth for just an instant before disappearing. His eyes were about to close again when something shiny and gold floated across his vision. A Cartier butterfly was making to alight atop the end of one of his prop blades. It landed, it's delicate wings encrusted with so many tiny jewels twinkling in the failing sunlight. Then it evidently remembered that it had somewhere to be and lifted off again.

The free-spirited sight of his winged friend began to anger Ripslinger. Why was it able to live such a free, careless life and not he? The rage flared within his belly at the thought of all that had been taken from him, and all the efforts that he'd made to get it back that were in vain, and all the while the butterfly fluttered to an fro, courting and dancing among the tussocks of grass and little wildflowers, always flitting back to encourage Ripslinger, but his state of mind was not that of the butterfly's.

"Go away!" he snarled at the butterfly, who seemed to not hear him. "I don't want your taunts and teases anymore! Leave me!"

His malnourishment and fatigue humiliated him to no end, but even after Ripslinger had started eating properly again, to rediscover at least some of the energy that he'd lost, he was not himself. There was something about him that still hesitated, that held back, that hedged his bets. Now, he did not quite know who he was or what he was supposed to do. Like he'd been taken apart and put back together wrong. He felt like he would never stop being tired. Summer on Propwash Junction was in it's prime, but Ripslinger was not.

* * *

Okay who else got the sad pouty-face when it was revealed that Rip went and locked himself in the cage because he felt he was going to have another fit? Don't count him out just yet folks! He's really trying! Chapter title inspired by the Grizzly Bear song of the same title.


	10. Drummer Boy

A young man drove down a wide, empty country road under the high sun in a Firebird-Orange '69 BOSS 429 Mustang, a hand-me-down from his parents. To be honest, it wasn't so much of a hand-me-down as it was a graduation present. It was his father's, and he always used to dream of owning it when he was little, going into the garage to see him working on it. So, when he graduated valedictorian out of highschool last year, he received it as his first car, and it would take him to college, towards his ultimate dream: a musician.

The boy was extremely gifted. He had an aptitude to pick up nearly any musical instrument you handed him and play it, gaining proficiency in a matter of hours, and he had perfect pitch; you could hum any note, and he could tell you without hesitation what it was. But, out of all the instruments he could play, he had three that were dear to his heart: his Snare Drum, Baritone, and Mellophone; four if you wanted to count his voice. They were his most prized possessions, and he had planned on auditioning for a Drum Corps in upcoming December.

But that was before the dimensional collision. Since then, his family and friends were gone, and he had barley any money. As a result, he traveled around the country, stopping wherever to eat, which was extremely rare, given how many humans were still left. He was often taken in by the Vivens Machina, what planes, cars, and other such machines were referred to by humans on this side of the sky, who were surprised to a) not only meet a human, but b) see a car that wasn't living like they were, what such vehicles were on the human side of the sky. Nearly every family that he met, however, were gracious hosts extremely curious of the different musical instruments that he had with him as well as his adeptness in playing them all.

Sighing, the human rubbed his short, brown hair, which you could tell would be curly if he allowed it to grow out, and adjusted his aviator sunglasses. Reaching his arm out towards the radio, he fumbled with the knob to see what stations there were.

"Country… Rock… Country… Country…" he muttered to himself, settling on the last frequency as The Allman Brothers' "Jessica" played over the late '60s stereo.

It wasn't two seconds before the boy started tapping along to the beat on his steering wheel, bobbing his head like nobody was around for miles. In fact, where was everybody? Stopping, he looked around him as he drove. He knew he was somewhere in the Midwest, obviously, judging by all the corn fields. In fact, he couldn't see anything but cornfields, the high sun shining off the now green fields for miles. That explained the sudden lack of diversity on the radio. And the horrible smell of some kind of fertilizer. Just then, a sign came up on the side of the road, pointing the way to some town called Propwash Junction.

"Huh. Airplane community, maybe?" he spoke to himself out loud. "Well, I guess we're going to find out."

After a few more minutes of driving, the young human concluded that it was unmistakably an airplane colony. Light aircraft of all makes and models abounded. Nevertheless, he pulled up next to a building marked "Fill-'n'-Fly," before shutting off his car and opening the trunk to pull out a couple of things. He needed a break from the long drive.

Meanwhile, our own little group of planes and other vehicles were gathered in the grass near the river, enjoying the sunshine and whatever talk came easiest. Ripslinger, Skipper, with Sparky hunkered down beside him, and Dusty lay in the cool grass with Chug and Dottie sitting across from them. The Mustang lay, idly sucking and chewing on the end of a wheat-stalk, listening to Dusty regaling them with the tale of how he earned his championship title, even though, with the exception of Ripslinger, they were all there to witness it.

"So because I beat two rivals, and I also won the race, I got a three-point major; enough to be awarded the title of Champion," Dusty was saying.

"Yeah, that was a pretty slick trick, Dusty," the Corsair, Skipper remarked, "One of your finest moments."

"Yep! It won't be long before I've earned enough points to get my Grand Champion title now. I'll bet Ripslinger could teach me all sorts of moves like that," the smaller racer said, turning to the green and black plane, trying to get him involved in the conversation. "You know, besides just trying to kill your competition."

"Haha…" Ripslinger, managing to ignore that last remark, maneuvered the wheat stalk in his mouth over, dead-panning, "Not on your life, Sport." before tapping twice on the smaller plane's nose with the end of it.

Dusty, a wry smirk on his face, opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and became alert at the sound of an unfamiliar engine coming into town.

"Whoa. D'ya hear that?" the orange and white plane asked.

Everyone else was paying attention now.

"Sounds beefy, whoever it is," Chug observed. "It's nobody I recognize."

He looked to Dottie, sitting to the left of him, who shrugged her forks.

"Me neither," Skipper said, "How 'bout you, Dusty?"

"I don't know," he answered thoughtfully, "Let's go see!"

And before anybody could respond he was up on his landing gear, his engine fired up as he went speeding off and took flight, his companions blinking after him. In his haste and eagerness he had forgotten to contact the control tower as he approached the main runway. He would probably get reprimanded for it later, but that was the farthest thing on his mind as he soon spotted what was out of the ordinary.

The stranger was parked over by the Fill 'n' Fly, orange color standing out brightly. Some sort of muscle car from the looks of things. Dusty cut his engine and floated himself down the rest of the way, silently, suddenly becoming cautious. He could hear music, some kind of horn, as he approached, slinking down a bit into his landing gear, but as he got closer realized that this was no normal car, and he rose back up to his default stance, nose raised in surprised curiosity.

By the time the rest of the group got there, they could see Dusty, mesmerized and hunkered down into his landing gear, belly almost touching the ground as he stared unblinking in a way he had when fascinated by something that he's never seen before.

Sitting on the trunk of the firebird orange Mustang was a human, quite a young human, and he was playing a sort of silver horn. The stranger had at first paid no mind to Dusty when the small plane came up to him, but at the approach of a larger group of Vivens Machina, he paused in his playing, sincerely hoping that this was the welcoming committee. He lifted his shades up onto his head, revealing strange-colored eyes, they were not blue, and yet they were not green either, but the color of static water in an estuary. The two larger planes toward the back didn't look particularly friendly, especially the green and black one. Dusty broke the tension.

"Hey!"

The male human turned toward Dusty as he took off his Aviators completely and hung them from the collar of his shirt, alert in his appraisal but holding down any expression of nervousness pretty well. This little one seemed friendly enough. Of course, "little" still being about eighteen feet long, by his judgment, but the other two planes in the group made him seem very small.

"You're really good with that horn," the orange and white plane complemented, "What is it?"

"It's a French Horn," answered the stranger. "I was playing a piece out of Venus."

"Like from The Planets?" Dusty asked.

"Yes," the human replied softly, "How do you-"

"I did a tandem aerobatics performance at the Hill Country Hammerfest to Jupiter once."

"Oh," he murmured, noting that more and more he'd be noticing parallels between this world and his former world; he idly wondered if maybe there wasn't some car version of himself or something rolling around somewhere.

He picked his horn back up and started playing the first horn set for Jupiter. Dusty laughed, getting a real kick out of this.

"Yeah, that's the one!"

"Who are you?"

It was the green and black plane that spoke, his voice such a stark contrast to the smaller plane's in front of him; low, smooth, and with a harder edge that jarred the human out of the relative comfort that he'd fallen into, but he kept it down as he answered.

"I'm a musician," said the stranger, coolly, "Most people just call me Tom."

The checker-marked P-51 seemed to relax, if even minutely, at how the boy had said "people", as if taking it to mean that he had also referred to all of them as people as well, but kept him fixed in a scrutinizing but otherwise unreadable stare.

"Cool," Dusty chirped, breaking up the awkwardness, "My names Dusty. Dusty-"

"Crophopper," Tom finished. "I know who you are."

"You do? Sorry, I wouldn't think most humans would be familiar…"

"Well no, they don't, really," Tom admitted, "But I hang out with a lot of your kind from time to time when there aren't any human settlements to lay up in."

"Lay up in?" Dusty asked.

"I don't really… Let's just say I travel for a living," clarified Tom, choosing his words carefully.

"That explains why you weren't all that surprised to see us then," Skipper concluded.

"I see…" said Dusty, "Well, you could say that about me and Ripslinger too," he gestured toward the larger racing plane. "Between the two of us, we've been just about everywhere almost."

"Speaking of which, I haven't really seen much of you on the tube lately, Ripslinger," Tom observed, "So what are you doing out here?"

"I'm on vacation," the Mustang replied flatly.

"Huh. Funny, I didn't really think you two were friends."

"We aren't," Ripslinger continued in the same tone, at which Dusty suddenly looked uncomfortable as Tom stared, unsure as how to react.

"Hey, what're these other things?"

Tom turned to see Dusty now peering into the open windows of the car at the other instruments that he had with him in the back seat. He scratched his head at how fast the little plane was already beaming with vibrancy and curiosity again. The way his focus could fly from one thing to another was enough to make one's head spin, almost reminiscent of a dog that's spotted a squirrel.

"Oh, those are my other instruments."

"You can play all these?" Dusty said, impressed. "Take them out, I want a better look."

"'Kay…"

And so Tom did, sliding off the trunk of the BOSS 429 and opening the back seat, taking out various kinds of horns and drums, laying them all one by one down onto the grass. At this point the whole group came forward, marveling at how similar they were to instruments in their own world.

"So, here we have what I like to call the "Drum Corps Brass" set: Contrabass Bugle, Baritone, Mellophone, and Trumpet; notice how they are all silver. These instruments are used for Drum and Bugle Corps… or were, I should say," Tom said, looking a little downcast, but then he sucked it up and continued.

"Same over here, this is the 'Drumline' set: Marching Snare and Marching Quads, which are clearly for more rhythmic aspects. And then," Tom smiled, "one of my favorites of the periodic table of percussion is a Guiro de puertorriqueño." Tom stopped for a second before rotating on his feet. "Ustedes pueden hablar español, ¿verdad?" He said, before getting some very blank looks, although Ripslinger seemed a little less clueless than the rest. "Never mind then," he said, and continued nonchalantly.

As they all nosed around and handled the different instruments, Tom noticed that Ripslinger was no longer among the group. He looked around, and found him standing in front of his car, a detached, bored look of appraisal etched into his features and he stared down at it. Now that he was away from the others, Tom could see that he wasn't exactly what he was expecting of a plane of his kind of celebrity. He was… thin, and just looked generally unhealthy, and he had a certain melancholy about him that was perplexing, especially with the way his control surfaces were hanging down. Then the large green and black plane leaned down, sticking his nose under the front bumper of the car, and Tom stiffened in alarm.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, and then his chest seized with horror as the P-51 lifted the front of his car nearly two feet off the ground like it was nothing, letting it drop back down, bouncing into its suspension. "Hey, hey, hey, _hey_ , HEY!"

Ripslinger backed away, but kept his nose pointing down at the human intently as he ran in font of him and between the car, seemingly forgetting the considerable difference in size and strength.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"What's your problem?" Ripslinger seemed to sneer, his eyes narrowed, "It's not like this thing is alive."

"I don't care! It damn may as well be alive! I…" Tom paused, everyone was frozen; nobody made a sound as plane and human stared each other down, "It's all I've got left of my old life, okay?"

Ripslinger's nose tipped up slightly as he backed up another inch or two, and where his eyes, Tom observed, seemed rather dull, something flickered in their continence. Not enough for the human to be able to place what emotion it was, but enough for him to notice. The checker-marked racer, reversed further before slewing his body away and moving back toward the rest of the group, who were slowly going back to their examinations. _What was_ _ **up**_ _with this guy?_ Tom thought. _Why's he so robotic?_

The human followed suit, watching with interest as Dusty nosed at the contrabass bugle, sort of rolling it over the ground and feeling it. He winced as Dusty then started mouthing it a little, eventually moving to pick it up but shortly laid it back down when he realized that it was much heavier than it looked. Great. Airplane slobber on his instruments. He hoped it wasn't corrosive or something weird like that; how was he to know? At least he was being gentle. Tom could just see the sharper, pointed teeth toward the back of his jaws as he had gripped the contra in his mouth, some of which were nearly four inches long and almost two inches thick at the base.

"Hey, Rip!" the former crop-duster called out, "Come over here and pick this thing up."

"Busy."

Tom looked over to see Ripslinger examining his marching snare with Sparky. He leaned down, turning his body slightly to the side and running one of his propeller blades across the top of it and then tapped on it twice. Tom watched with a curious attentiveness as he then brought two of them down onto it, one right behind the other, sounding almost like what he recognized as a flam only a bit slower.

"You like drums, Rip?" Sparky asked.

"Yeah," he answered somewhat absent-mindedly.

"Here, I got an idea. I'll be right back."

He scooted off, and when he came back he had his bracers for drumming in his forks.

"What are those for?" Ripslinger inquired.

"I use these when I do gigs and stuff." said Sparky as he began clipping them on to the green and black plane's prop blades. "These are meant for forklifts, but seeing as how you have two propellers that can be moved independently I think these should work out well enough. Hey, Tom, where're your sticks?"

Tom eagerly grabbed two of his drum sticks from out of the glove compartment and went to go fit them into the bracers, interested to see where this was going to go. As he approached him from his left side, he was suddenly interrupted.

"Ooh, uh, Tom!"

Tom stopped abruptly and slowly turned around a bit at the sudden urgency in Dusty's voice, not quite catching on yet to the way Ripslinger had tensed and lowered into his landing gear as he was walking up to him, his drooping control surfaces trembling as they attempted to raise.

"I think, uh, it might be better if you approached him from the front, 'kay?" Dusty covered, smiling a bit sheepishly.

"Uh, okay…"

Tom adjusted his course, more apprehensive than he was before at the thought of just walking up to the business-end of an airplane, especially at how sharp these particular propeller blades looked. He stopped just in front of him, the plane's manner and the enigmatic stare that he'd fixed the human with telling Tom nothing.

"Alright," Tom began tentatively, "I'm gonna put these on now."

Dusty watched with reserved interest as Ripslinger actually lowered down and stayed still for Tom as he attached the drum sticks and tightened them into the bracers. He pulled and tugged on them a bit to see that they would stay put, and once satisfied, stepped back.

"Okay, now try them."

After a moment's hesitation with everyone watching him he began just tapping here and there, alternating between a proper flam and seemingly random taps, but then he suddenly started into a continuous flam-tap, increasing in speed until the cadence hit that of the chugging of a locomotive. After holding that tempo for a few seconds he changed his technique and intensity, speeding up even further into a buzzing drum roll before slowing back down into the flam-tap from before, but then gradually coming to a stop once he'd noticed all the looks of wide-eyed astonishment directed at him.

"What?" he said nonchalantly as he looked around at everyone.

Tom sat there, pensive as he looked at Ripslinger. Without another thought, he went and grabbed another set of snare sticks, taped orange and green all the way down.

"Here Rip, try this. Right, left, right, right, left, right, left, left," he said, slowly hitting the paradiddle as he said it before Ripslinger joined in.

They worked their way up the tempo before the sticks were a blur of motion, the sound perfectly spaced apart. Ripslinger then evolved his patterns into some paradiddle-diddles, and some quintuplets with flams thrown in the mix. He continued to get more complex, even throwing in a book report before Ripslinger and Tom worked their way back down the tempo.

"Hmm. Have you ever played the snare before?" the boy asked.

"Yes."

The answer was short, and Tom was able to tell the subtle hints of "but let's not go into that right now." in the large plane's tone. He respectfully moved on.

"How extraordinary…" Skipper murmured thoughtfully.

His tone was still rather cryptic as to what exactly about what they were looking at was extraordinary, but Dusty knew well enough himself as he smiled knowingly up at his mentor before turning his eyes back onto the spectacle of a human being and an thirty-four foot long airplane wailing on the drums together, not one movement, not one drum beat out of place. Tom started getting fancy with some stick flips and hi-moms before he hit a shot on Drum 1, and then both the drum head and the stick snapped. As Tom yelped in pain, the others went rushing over to his side; even Ripslinger seemed concerned.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Dusty said, his voice laced with worry.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Tom assured them as he shook out his hand. "Hurt like hell though. I'm going to need to get a new drum head," he said, before another thought crossed him. "I'm also going to need a place to stay for a while, if you guys don't mind."

The group, having already gotten rather attached to this young man that had so suddenly dropped into their lives, chorused in a plethora of "Oh no's" and "Sure's" before Dottie offered up.

"I've got room, and I'll bet Sparky will be able to help you with that drum head."

"Yeah you'll just have to put up with her fumbling with that old Baby Grand of hers every morning," Sparky jested.

"You shut up! Just because I can't play anything fast…"

"No, that actually sounds pretty good."

"Well, come with me then," she said, turning "Let's get you set up."

XXxx

The sun was nearly set, keeping the cliffs of Propwash Junction's airport brightly lit while the land below was already shrouded in darkness. Ripslinger sat in his usual spot near the edge of one of the cliffs, nose pointed into the sun as he stared off into the distance, still wearing the bracers on his prop blades. Where Dusty really enjoyed the sunsets a place like this could offer, Ripslinger preferred to stay out after it went down for the real show to start. He could never see the stars back home in Los Angeles. He remained motionless even after he became aware that he had company. Tom had come to stand beside him, and the two sat in silence for a while before the human spoke.

"You know, I gotta admit, I never thought I'd find myself playing a duet with an airplane, but that was pretty fun earlier."

"Yeah…" Ripslinger spoke, the barest traces of a smile making itself seen.

And it did not go unnoticed by Tom, but he wasn't going to push the issue. The sun was nearly set, darkness starting to prevail on the cliffs now. There was another companionable silence between human and plane. Tom looked back up to the P-51, noticing the bracers.

"Here, let me take those off."

Ripslinger turned and leaned down to Tom's level, wincing a bit as he un-clipped the bracers and took them off. As the human took off the last one, he reached up, his hand nearly brushing the plane's nose cone, but Ripslinger jerked up and away. He quickly pulled his hand back, startled at how fast something that size could move. He was constantly getting thrown off like that; the Vivens Machina just didn't _move_ the way a human would think they should, given what they were. Such things making such fast, and rather fluid movements just didn't seem to process right in a human's brain.

And yet Ripslinger, after some hesitation, seemed to be drawing inexplicably nearer to him. He once again reached out his hand, the two both moving toward each other. He flinched slightly, when the green and black Mustang lifted his nose a bit, his mouth opening just enough to see the rear teeth, where from this close up Tom could see exactly how big and how sharp they were. But he pushed forward, his hand eventually coming to rest on the side of Ripslinger's nose cone. He just let it rest there for a moment before slowly, gently sliding his hand about halfway around it's circumference, marveling at how warm it was contrary to how he thought it would feel.

Olive stared into teal, and Tom could have sworn he saw that same something from before flash through the checker-marked plane's eyes again, feeling an unexplained prickle as his hair raised. Dusty had been watching from a distance, a huge, hopeful smile on his face as he saw the human and plane withdraw from each other, and Tom walk away back toward town. Ripslinger stared after him, an odd sort of confused yet wistful look about his features.

"Don't worry," Dusty said, making his presence known as he approached, "he'll still be here when you wake up in the morning."

"Who'll still be here?" Ripslinger asked, suddenly becoming haughtily aloof as he moved to go back into town himself to the hangar.

Dusty sighed, a flutter blowing from his engine as he shook his front and smiled, following Ripslinger back.

* * *

A new player enters! Along with a little tid-bit on how humans arrived in this world in the first place. This poor kid has NO idea what he's just stumbled into...


	11. Dwindling Hope

Dusty lie down in the grass, staring at the door to his hangar, thinking. Ripslinger was on the other side of the door, resting, the little plane hoped. It was late afternoon, around the time he liked to get a good nap in, but Dusty felt he'd had enough sleep lately anyway, and even when he was feeling a little punky from the lack of adequate rest when the P-51 was first released from confinement, he was still more concerned for the larger plane's well being rather than his own. The fact that he'd tried to take his own life had hurt Dusty deeply. He should have been more understanding; less preachy. If he had lost Ripslinger that day a piece of himself would have died as well at the thought of him showing that he had a shred of decency, of some sense of valor, that he did indeed have it in him somewhere deep inside only for it to end that way before it could be fully re-kindled.

As dark and painful as the near-tragedy was, Dusty still felt a glimmer of hope. Ripslinger had cried. Actually cried. It was the first time that Dusty had ever seen Ripslinger express sorrow. Something other than mirthlessness, cruelty, or spite. The awakening of that seemingly lost emotion was a step in the right direction, Dusty was sure of it, and the fact that Ripslinger had even accepted his proposal was a miracle in and of itself. Two weeks now and he had still been true to his word. After some hesitation from both sides and a few false starts, Ripslinger had been actually beginning to show improvement.

He had had actually been communicating more with the others. A surprisingly good-natured mischievousness was starting to emerge as he started to bicker and debate with everyone. Dusty would never tell him this directly as it would only make him become reserved again, but he was incredibly proud of him, and encouraged. He was doing far better than Dusty had dared to hope for.

Health-wise, despite all his apparent recoveries in losing some of the clumsiness that he had after the damage he had done in his attempted suicide, and starting to put on some weight, his flaps still drooped sadly, and that hauntingly empty look in his eyes was still there. For what emotion he deigned to show, there was still a hollowness behind those olive-colored eyes that unnerved Dusty and gave him a distinct sense of foreboding; that something wasn't quite right. And what of his expected improvements? As Ripslinger slowly regained his fire, would he continue to honor his end of the deal, or would he turn aggressive toward them? There was just no way of knowing. He was simply too volatile and unpredictable in his nature to go making any bets just yet.

As far as the strange, crippling dysphoric episodes that Ripslinger would undergo on a daily basis, they had been largely un-monitored after his release. It had gotten to the point where, despite seeming to strike at random, the Mustang could more or less sense them coming, and would quietly slip away by himself, usually to the old hangar or this secluded spot he'd found in the woods that he could only hope was out of ear-shot as he fought to keep a hold of his sanity through the violent, painful spasming of his body. Ripslinger's stubbornness was far greater than his first instinct of just letting himself go in order to somewhat escape what mental and physical anguish he could.

And so it was when he was taken completely by surprise that afternoon, collapsing mid-stride as he and Dusty began to make their way back to Dusty's hangar from Skipper's side of the airfield. The smaller plane span around at the crashing sound of Ripslinger hitting the asphalt and rushed to his side, shouting for Skipper. Ripslinger was vaguely aware of the presence of the Corsair's weight hovering over his frame as he twitched and jerked on the ground, ready to pounce should he try to attack any of them. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth gritted painfully as he concentrated more on his lucidity than the indignity of the older plane practically mounted on top of him. Dusty wasn't long in catching on to what Ripslinger was currently struggling to achieve, and leaned down into his landing gear near his face.

"Rip! What's happening?" he asked frantically, taking advantage of Ripslinger's lingering sanity

to try and get a better understanding for what was taking place.

The P-51 tried to answer but couldn't get past his pain-filled gasps and pants, the action of the tremors going all the way into his flaps and ailerons. A stabbing, burning torture began slowly spreading throughout his wings as parts of his body that had been otherwise incapable of being used were suddenly jarred into such frantic movements. Ripslinger attempted once again to speak, but ended up letting out a breathless, agonized scream instead.

"Ripslinger! Look at me! Where is it hurting? Tell us what you need!" Dusty attempted again, becoming more and more distressed at the larger plane's agony.

He couldn't look at him. He knew if he looked into those sky-blue eyes he'd lose it. This was why he always tried to go off alone when he thought he was going into an episode. There were too many distractions right now. He couldn't hold it. Ripslinger closed his eyes, a low growling emitting from his engine as they opened again and he turned robotically on the ground toward Dusty, setting a glare on him and lunging with a rev, jaws agape. He didn't get far as Skipper had already planted his wheels firmly in front of Ripslinger's wings, but then shifted his weight to bring one of them down on top of the green and black Mustang's nose, slamming him back down and rendering him unable to open his mouth again as he kept him pressed into the ground.

Ripslinger struggled with a surprising amount of vigor that he shouldn't have had in his condition, his engine snarling and hissing in fury underneath Skippers wheel. Then he suddenly stilled, and for a moment they all thought that it was over, at least everyone except Skipper, who kept the pressure up over the middle of Ripslinger's nose. But then he began thrashing again, a certain desperation evident in his features.

"Skipper... Skipper get off!" Dusty suddenly shouted, as a gurgling was heard from Ripslinger's engine, "I don't think he can breathe!"

Almost as soon as Dusty had spoken, that familiar, black tar-like substance exploded out of the exhausts lining Ripslinger's nose and everybody, including Skipper, sprang away, giving startled shouts and muttered curses. The checker-marked racer tried to rise to his landing gear, panic and fear in his eyes, only making it up part way before he collapsed back down, gasping and choking on more of the fluid as he twitched on the ground. It was as if he was deconstructing right before their very eyes.

"Okay, this is ridiculous," Dottie muttered as she turned herself in the direction of the garage, "I don't give a damn if we said weren't going to sedate him anymore, I'm sedating him!"

She sped off, the others staying where they were, helplessly gathered around as they waited for her to return. They knew she had a point. These episodes of his usually never lasted more than a few, albeit long, minutes, but this one had now gone on for over seven. Clarice watched Ripslinger as he lay on the rough asphalt, hyperventilating harshly through his teeth and intakes as spasms continued to shake through his frame about every two seconds. She fought with herself as she raised a hand as if to go to him, but then withdrew it again, curling it into a fist which she pressed to her chest. Skipper noticed.

"You stay back, Clarice."

Dottie soon returned and injected the lowest dose of Thortrazepam that she thought she could get away with, and then had him towed back to Dusty's hanger in the hopes that if left alone and quiet he would recover. Ripslinger lay on the sleeping mat, his breathing now slowed to a laborious, tired effort, small little aftershocks of shudders still hitting him every now and then. He was fighting the sedation. Although Dusty was reluctant to leave him, he sadly recognized that Ripslinger must have been responding to his presence; still trying to prepare for an attack in his deranged state of mind. He turned to leave. He did not dare look into Ripslinger's eyes, because then he wouldn't be able to bring himself to leave the hangar. Dusty needed him to feel safe. That there was no threat so that he could focus on resting after such a long, violent episode.

It had been a few hours since Ripslinger had been left alone in the hangar now. Worrying, considering that the usual recovery involved him laying where he'd fallen for a short while, fully conscious but waiting for his breathing to steady before he would push shakily up to his wheels, a bit sore and stiff, but back to normal. This didn't seem to be happening this time. He stayed in fitful unconsciousness as the doors were opened just a crack to check on him every once and a while. Dusty yawned in his spot in the grass. A few little sprinkles of rain fell onto his nose and he looked up toward the sky. There were clouds gathering and light was fading fast, and he hadn't heard anything in a while so he figured it would be safe enough to go back into his hangar. He slid open the doors as quietly as he could, but then he froze, a look of grave concern snapping in place.

Ripslinger was still lying in roughly the same position that they'd left him in, but he was oddly still. Bad memories making their way to the surface, Dusty pushed them down as he quietly exhaled, gulping as he carefully moved toward him. He stopped only a few feet in front of him, and could see that Ripslinger was indeed still breathing, but very shallowly.

The former-crop duster let out a relieved sigh, but there was fatigue in it, and bitterness too. He hated this. He was hating everything about this situation. The apparent improvements, the set-backs; they were driving him crazy. He hated how this great, magnificent beast of a plane, who he had once idolized, even though that had soured over time after they had first actually met, had been reduced to this thin, feeble, decrepit state. And he especially hated how he practically looked like he was dead on the rare occasion that he was able to sleep soundly anymore. Dusty moved forward, hesitated, then closing his eyes, slowly leaned down toward Ripslinger's flank and very gently touched him with the tip of his nose cone.

The P-51 stirred slightly, pulling in a soft, short gasp and grimacing a bit as his eyes flitted open for only second. Dusty nuzzled him a bit more, and Ripslinger took in another, stronger breath, letting it out with a puff through his exhausts before inhaling again, deeply. His eyes opened again, looking around in a dazed, sort of bemused manner, as if he couldn't see properly. They slid over to look back at Dusty, holding his gaze for a few moments before closing again. They were as dull and lifeless as the orange and while plane had ever seen them. His face fell at the sight of it. He could feel himself start to shake. Dusty was still young enough to have never seen dying airplanes, but this surely was what he was looking at now.

The little racer sniffed back tears, sinking into his landing gear. Ripslinger's eyes opened once more as the smaller plane moved around to the other side of his wing, then he closed them again as if it was too much of an effort to keep them open. Dusty began gently giving soft little licks under the P-51's eye, being careful to note his reaction, but upon eliciting hardly any at all the tears started to fall in earnest now. Ripslinger shuddered softly, and attempted to shift his weight a bit on the sleeping pad, but made no move to try to push Dusty away. He was far too weak. And the thought only made Dusty cry harder as he laid down next to him, pushing up into the crook of the fore of his wing. He continued to lick around his limp flaps as they sagged down, as if the action would somehow magically heal him.

Ripslinger's eyes had opened again when Dusty had pressed up against him. Tears had begun forming and falling from his own eyes in his pain and exhaustion as Dusty tried so desperately to comfort him. There was a strange sort of tug deep within Ripslinger's being. A pull. A determined, clawing persistence that felt so foreign and yet natural that he couldn't explain even if he had the energy or presence of mind to. Dusty hardly noticed the larger plane leaning into his frame as he allowed himself to be soothed, and the two eventually drifted off to sleep together in each other's embrace.

* * *

Okay here was your sads. Up next though are the bads, AKA, the chapter where I lose all of my followers. I'm seriously scared right now dudes.


	12. Soulless (Explicit Content)

Early evening sprinkles had turned into a midnight rainstorm. Dusty lie awake on the sleeping mat in his hangar, having woken up unable to get back sleep with too much on his mind. The longer he stared into the light cast by the moon through the rain-beaded window, the more the darkness on the hangar walls seemed to slither down away from it like wispy strands of kelp swaying in an ocean current.

Suddenly a chill went through the orange and white plane's frame, and his attention was drawn into the corner of the room. The darkness seemed to move, to morph as he stared into it, the former crop duster now on the alert and unblinking. The hangar appeared to be getting impossibly bigger as the darkness grew, seeming to suck him in. And then an enormous black shape took form. Dusty could just visualize the long, thin body, orange-red pinstripes appearing to glow faintly in gloom. Again, he visualized morbidly colored eyes that were calm but earnest like candlelight, only at the same time they cast none as they locked on to him. Then the beast moved.

Dusty was alone. He could no longer feel Ripslinger next to him; not that he would have been much help in his weakened condition. There was a strange sound. A hot, heavy, ceaseless hissing and humming of some sort of engine, intermittent rattling punctuating it's ambience. All other sounds seemed to become non-existent as Dusty watched with mounting fear as the darkness grew bigger and bigger as it came toward him; a magnificent, fearsome black thing that stood against the moon's face in the window, and the little plane forced his eyes shut until his eyelids strained. And then the nightmare touched him.

A sharp point slowly haunted over his frame. Dusty clenched his teeth. His control surfaces constricted and twitched. ' _I... I can't move!'_ Dusty's eyes squeezed tighter as he felt the thing move around behind him, the needle grazing over his canopy and down his back, hitting a pressure point, making him arch up and shake and shiver and gasp from pleasure, pain, and desperation. ' _I can't_ _ **move**_ _!'_ He couldn't take it. Once the touch left him, Dusty cringed out a whimper, tears fighting their way to the surface. That's when the phantom's warm, breathy voice suddenly murmured from back in front of him again.

"Shhh... Do not fear me, Dusty. I won't hurt you."

The tears broke though the dam as Dusty's eyes opened with a gasp. He knew that voice. His eyes grew wide at who he saw standing in place of the shadow creature. Looming over him in the dark was none other than Ripslinger, suddenly back in the room with him, the strength to stand seemingly returned. His eyelids were lowered, drawn, and eerie. There was too much black eclipsing his face from the darkness to determine his expression, but Dusty could still make out the acid green and a sliver of flames from his intake under a streak of moonlight.

Dusty felt a twinge of relief in spite of himself as his raised up a bit from the sleeping mat. He saw Ripslinger's eyes narrow more, and Dusty thought he saw them flash bloody red for an instant. A smirk of white smiled at him, the first of the sharp rear teeth exposed. Dusty's sentimental happiness browed down into a frown. Was he still dreaming? Ripslinger hunkered down in front of him until Dusty could taste his breath; until he was squirming and worming in a discomfort that was contradicting his inner need to have him closer. Dusty found himself drunk, his head light and fuzzy, unable to think or see the shapes in the corners of the hangar. He lazed his eyes up and down Ripslinger's face, trying to properly picture is expression.

"I can smell your tears..."

Ripslinger's throaty, sinister use of tone was grinning a mockery at him. Dusty shook his front in denial, opening his mouth to speak.

"Hush..." He leaned down and pecked at the corner of Dusty's mouth, making him flinch at such an unexpected gesture and the tidbit of warmth that smacked off of him. Dusty sucked his lip up behind his teeth, eyes wide and uncertain as he fidgeted a bit. "Be still... Be silent..."

The moisture in Ripslinger's breaths kissed over Dusty's plating as he lowered his nose, turning into the smaller plane's side and dragging it lightly against his fuselage. He let it whisper across Dusty's propeller blades as he came back up to face him again, olive smoldering into cerulean as they locked eyes. This was no dream, Dusty was sure of it. He could smell him, feel the displacement of air and hear him when he moved. Sense the warmth from his body. How could anybody in their right mind think this wasn't really happening? And since when was he this beautiful in all his emaciated, broken down debilitation? Dusty swallowed his butterflies as Ripslinger looked him from the eyes to the mouth, plotting something behind the emotionless sensuality in his face before he clamped a small bite onto his lower lip.

Dusty 'eep'-ed a bit and adjusted to turn away and escape the emotions bursting through him right then and there, but Ripslinger's tongue belly-danced on that lip at a steady beat until it was soft, wet, and soggy. Dusty's mouth trembled against the saliva being swirled around his lips, his tires gripping into the soft sleeping mat as he shook violently, ironically, in the effort to keep himself from shaking. Again, Ripslinger watched him from under heavy black lids, eyeing Dusty's reactions and calculating his hot-spots. He dragged a slobbery tongue up along that bottom lip of his as his breath washed over his mouth. The animalistic erotica caused Dusty's flaps to tense up until they ached as Ripslinger finally withdrew. Dusty gulped and sighed feverishly, licking around his mouth to taste what he left without meaning to.

"Rip-"

"I said "shh", Crophopper..."

Ripslinger went back to nuzzling against the side of Dusty's frame, his mouth brushing the paint every now and then, his prop blades lightly scratching it up. Dusty turned away to resist and enjoy as his body arched up into his touch, but before he could try to whisper his hesitations to him, Ripslinger came back around again and smothered him in a hard kiss. The breath he was quickly becoming addicted to filled Dusty's mouth faster than Ripslinger's tongue. Dusty bowed his nose down, causing their lips to smack off of each other, but Ripslinger once again gobbled him into another kiss, his tongue nearly filling his throat each time.

"Ripslinger... Ripslinger..." Dusty worried his name softly, eyes closed as he continued breaking the kisses that that larger plane continued joining.

Dusty tried to push, to resist, but Ripslinger's frame refused to be pushed back, and Dusty's own frame seemed to refuse to refuse him. Dusty couldn't understand. What was this all of a sudden? What was going on? But then Ripslinger whispered through the wet smacks between their mouths, a sort of desperation evident in his voice.

"Tell me... Will you save me?"

Slowly, tearfully, weakly, Dusty Crophopper opened his eyes and looked up at Ripslinger's face. He blinked as he searched the darkened olive depths that were drinking up his reaction in a heavy spell that made Dusty feel dizzier than any sort of alcohol that he'd ever consumed. He swallowed deep and hard, the slow frown that tightened his brow made the tears come rushing back again. His next gulp of air came back out in a shudder.

"Tell me, Dusty..." his engine let out a soft, harsh growl that rumbled down into his version of a purr. "Tell me..."

The purr slithered into a withering hiss as that talented tongue of his lapped at him again, slipping into his mouth before drawing Dusty's lip in again for a hard suckling. Then Ripslinger moved away, and Dusty let out a sudden yelp that ended in an exhaling whine when he felt a sharp bite to the aft of his left wing. Dusty's tail rolled up off the sleeping mat as his mouth opened in a strangled moan that he didn't know he had in him as the green P-51 continued to lick and tease at his wings with his teeth. Abruptly, Dusty lifted up onto his landing gear, backing up as he rose to bring Ripslinger's front to rest over the slope of his back, the action physically pleading him to continue no more. He wanted him to stop, so how come his body couldn't fight harder?

 _'Please, oh please, make it stop, make it stop. I don't want to feel anything anymore!'_

In spite of it, the larger plane continued to bite, stroke, and scrape over Dusty's sides and wings. The wounds on his plating did not bleed, but the prickling sensations were enough to have the little orange racer inhaling his whines in an almost masochistic arousal he didn't understand, and it scared him. Helpless, confused, ignorant. His pants becoming labored heat, Dusty mumbled between the little squeaks he made.

"Why... Why are you doing this?"

"Do you think you can save me?" the aggression in Ripslinger's engine coiled up into his vocals like that of an angry cobra, "Tell me..."

Dusty, his eyes lazy and disoriented and fogged with tears as they rolled around to the side when he felt the weight on the sleeping mat shift. Ripslinger rode up on him, pressing the younger plane back down. Dusty mumbled and murmured little quiet nothings that were supposed to be 'what are you doing?' somethings.

So hot... Why? Dusty dug his tires deeper into the sleeping mat. Ripslinger's frame was hot, so drenched in that reek of arousal as he simply hovered above him. Everything was spinning out of control. Nothing but darkness and feelings. Nothing but confusion and heat. Nothing but bodies... Why?

"You want me to love you, don't you? You want us to be friends..." Ripslinger manipulated, his voice suave, hard, and thick with the intense determination to be deep inside the smaller airplane underneath him.

He hunkered down into him, his ventral access panel feeling very tight indeed. That hot place that Dusty could feel brushing against him every now and then, the sticky humidity of the thing it concealed making his own insides moist and slippery.

"So then tell me..." And Ripslinger gave him another sensual lick, "If you will save me..."

Dusty squeaked again as he felt a drop or two of what he thought was drool land on his nose and right wing near his fuselage, the sensation of the sudden odd, cold, liquid chill making his engine flutter in warning of that warm, beautiful surge inside of him melting its way to the surface.

"Love me, save me... and I will love you..."

Dusty exhaled, shifting his frame to make it more accessible as he finally submitted. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. His wheels tensing into the sleeping pad, he prepared himself. And then his eyes opened back up in questioning confusion, letting out a soft, needy whine in protest before he could stop himself as he felt the warmth and weight from the larger plane above him lift away. He watched as Ripslinger rolled past him, stopping a little ways from the former crop-duster without turning to face him, the light from the moon shining across the once gaudy paint job. He seemed to sink a little on his landing gear.

Dusty stared at his back for a few moments, and then made to get up and go to him, but was stopped cold, recoiling and crying out in horror as Ripslinger then turned back around to face him. Revealed in the moonlight, most of his left side had been torn out. Obliterated.

Ripslinger stared out at him gravely from one eye, the other half of his face gone, the sharp rear teeth and the guts of his engine exposed. The vomit sitting in the middle of his throat, Dusty began to feel faint as he couldn't tear his eyes away from the macabre scene as they traveled down, looking into the gaping hole in the checker-marked plane's fuselage. Wires, broken and leaking fluid lines and hoses and other innards spilling out and quivering and pulsating with every ragged breath he took. And there, just barely visible in the darkness of the inside of Ripslinger's body, Dusty could barely make out part of what looked like a waxing and waning ribbon of blue-white light. The thread flickered, dimming down almost to nothing before spooling back up and growing brightly again, only to die back down to where it was in a manner of moments. A familiar black sludge flowed in copious amounts from the wound in his side, with more running steadily from his mouth.

"Oh, god, Rip..." Dusty cringed, his voice full of tears.

"It's no good..." Ripsliger was saying, sounding detached as more and more of his body seemed to be corroding away in front of Dusty's very eyes. "You're not safe. It's no use..."

"No! No, Ripslinger!" Dusty shouted tearfully, frantically. "I can help!"

"You'll hurt too, if you tame me..." the P-51 gurgled on the build-up of the tarry fluid.

"I don't care! I can _**see**_ you! There's no _way_ I'm leaving you to this now!"

"You don't understand..."

Then Ripslinger moved forward; a grotesque, twisted movement of what was left of him as the weak flow of light suddenly shot out from the exposed, gaping wound in his side and straight toward Dusty. He gasped as he felt it latch on to the heart of him and pain exploded in his wings and all down his left side as he began to be pulled toward the decrepit shell of the checker-marked Mustang, where he all but collapsed over the middle of the smaller plane's back, unable to stand any longer. The ever constant hissing, groaning ambience had now increased to ear-splitting levels, and Dusty cried out in fear and disgust, closing his eyes as the cold liquid, almost like melted obsidian, poured down onto him.

"You will become responsible, _forever_ , for what you have tamed..."

And the red eyes stared...

XXxx

"Seven-thousand eight-hundred and eighty-three pounds and three ounces," Dottie was saying as she read off the scale. "Not bad... That's almost a two-hundred pound gain from last time."

Dusty stood off to the side, eyeing Ripslinger's left side as if expecting it to come tearing open, still shaken and a little groggy from the rather rough night.

"A little more and you'll be on real food soon enough," Dottie continued. "Then you'll start gaining some _real_ weight."

"Ooh, good news..." Ripslinger mumbled, sounding completely unenthused, then he noticed Dusty. "What are you staring at?" he snapped half-heartedly.

"Oh, ah... Nothing..." Dusty covered weakly, starting at hearing the green and black plane's voice directed at him.

"You know, you've been acting weird all morning."

Dusty had been fussing over him since the moment he'd awoken early in his hangar, panting and sobbing for breath as the remnants of the dream wore off, alone, with Ripslinger nowhere to be seen. He'd scrambled up from his sleeping mat, finding a couple of cans of CCP that had been knocked over. Finding them empty, he immediately threw open the hangar doors to go search for him, only to find the P-51 perfectly alive and well as he rolled himself through the sprinklers in someone's front yard. He seemed to have perked up after that little bit of a wash, and after downing another can of CCP, they headed over to Dottie's shop to check up on his progress. Despite Dusty's worrying and anxious searching over him every few minutes, there also hung over him a sort of forced detached, awkward air that had Ripslinger perplexed and snarling at him more than once already.

"I uh... It's just that I had a little trouble sleeping last night is all."

Dusty stared up at him and suddenly felt his breath start to come in too quickly. He fought to stifle it down, feeling his cheeks burn hotly as images from the dream flashed through his mind, still vivid and clear. As Riplslinger stared at him, Dusty saw his eyes darken somewhat, and for one horrifying moment he thought the other plane somehow knew, but then the green and black racer blinked and it was gone.

"These are looking much better," Dottie remarked, now looking over his wings and inspecting the welding job she did when she closed the self-inflicted slashes. "Now let's see if we've got any more feeling back."

"Mm hmm... Yes!" Ripslinger snapped, almost failing in resisting the urge to turn and bite her for the pinches on his wings from the pliers.

"Very good," Dottie said, seemingly nonplussed as she moved along with the exam."And your control surfaces?"

Ripslinger did as asked, pulling in a breath and holding it as he raised his flaps up the highest he'd ever raised them. They trembled after a few seconds and began to ache so he let them fall, letting his breath back out with a slight flutter of his engine.

"Hmm, there's still a lot of weakness and some slight ill-coordination. Don't worry though, we're on the right track now; your strength and dexterity should come back. Just keep doing the exercises I showed you."

Dottie finished with the exam and declared his progress excellent, and Ripslinger left the garage without another word. The day wore on with Ripslinger dozing contently in the early summer heat. He loved this weather. It was just perfect for activity of loafing as he watched the world shimmer and bake. Dusty, on the other hand, hated the heat, even as he fidgeted uncomfortably in the shaded grass next to the Mustang, trying to emulate him. He eventually fell asleep, and Ripslinger took the chance to carefully stand and head into the quiet cool of the woods behind them. There was something he needed to attend to. Something he desired privacy for. He headed deeper into the forest, toward his usual spot that he took sanctuary in during his fits.

When Dusty woke alone, once again, his engine had squealed irritably in frustration. He scoured the ground for the heavy tire tracks that Ripslinger would have left behind. He had a time of it but managed to pick his way through the forest for tell-tale signs of breakage and disturbance in the foliage and forest floor. After a while, the surroundings started looking familiar, and Dusty realized that he was heading toward a part of the woods that he himself favored when he wanted quiet. Strange, that Ripslinger would have sought out and discovered the same spot for himself. Dusty stopped looking for tracks and simply headed toward the sheltered spot he knew.

The trees here started to become close in, making it difficult for even a plane his size to nip their way through. A break revealed a sort of hollow in the trees, but the canopy created by the trees that ringed the bald spot was very thick to where the sun shining down through it turned everything below them green.

And then he heard it. An odd noise. Vocalizations that didn't make sense. The little orange airplane slowed, creeping up to the edge of the gap. And there was Ripslinger. His back was toward him. His voice was thin and drawn as he spoke, his voice lilting up into a proper, pleasant note here and there, and it was then that he realized that Ripslinger was singing. Then the P-51 let the words trail away, pausing. Maybe singing was the wrong word. None of it made sense. It sounded to Dusty more like nonsensical word-salad; the vocals more or less in key, the pitch wavering down now and then, but the words were all jumbled out of order. Ripslinger took another breath, and tried again, but soon enough stopped, and this time he stopped for good, his nose lowering before he shut his eyes and grit his teeth in angry sadness. So that was that. His song was broken. He couldn't even sing.

"They've destroyed me..."

Dusty could stand no more. His engine felt like it would break itself to pieces at the message that he was still able to glean from the disorganized words that revealed a sad state of self that was clear Ripslinger had been living with for a long, long time now. He made his way into the clearing, but slipped as he rolled over a larger stick, breaking it and stumbling, then everything turned mad.

He was going to die. He was sure of it. Sure of the the instant that Ripslinger's hollow, depraved eyes flew across the forest in furious shock and caught his. They almost seemed to glow then, and mirror exactly how he was going to die by the now enraged Mustang's teeth. Dusty reacted a split-second too late as Ripslinger darted forward with surprising speed and grabbed him none too gently by the wing in his teeth and started to drag him further into the clearing.

 _'Fuck! He's really gonna kill me!'_

"Damn it, Rip! Don't do this!" he shouted, trying in vain to get loose or else bite or strike with his now spinning propeller, but the larger plane had him in such a way that he couldn't get to him. Running out of options, Dusty dug his wheels into the forest floor and continued trying to reason with him. "You can't think you can get away with this! It's not like you can just explain away me not being with you when you come back! Damn it, you can't kill me!"

Now truly scared for his life, Dusty began to flail violently, and by accident his prop finally connected to the side of Ripslinger's nose, loosening his grip on his wing. After a moment's hesitation, Dusty turned and tried to make a break for it, but Ripslinger lunged and caught his tail and started pulling him backwards back into the forest. With a shocking amount of force for someone in his condition, he swung around and threw Dusty against one of the larger trees, hard enough to cause the bark to rupture on impact. He pinned him there against the tree and began to bite him mercilessly.

They were bites meant to cause pain and fatigue rather than to kill outright. He could have honestly snapped the little racer in half if he'd liked, not just exhaust him into submission. By the time Ripslinger paused, Dusty could feel every single wound he'd inflicted.

"Say it. Say you're worthless," his voice hissed near the rear window behind Dusty's left eye, his voice sounding odd and forced.

Purely on instinct, Dusty hauled off and bit him as hard as he could in the junction of his right wing where he knew he was weak. It hurt, no doubt, with the way Ripslinger recoiled, and Dusty was able to scoot away a bit, but as before Ripslinger followed and caught him again, throwing him into another, even sturdier tree. That one had hurt a hell of a lot more than the first one. He pinned him again.

" _Say it!_ "

He leaned down and bit Dusty again, his teeth sinking into the aft of his left wing and he twisted until the smaller airplane shrieked.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to do this..." he snarled again next to Dusty's head and he shook, his eyes wide with palpable fear. "Not many could keep me waiting as long as you have..." the growling of his engine had started to creep into his voice as it usually did during one of his seizures. He slipped his right landing gear over to the other side of him and began to press him down. "but I won't be delayed any longer..."

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

Ripslinger settled down over the top of Dusty, and when he pressed forward a little bit, he thought he felt something tease against the underside of his tail. He pushed him harder against the ground, moved back, and then suddenly entered him with a stab.

Dusty's scream came on instinct. His body wasn't exactly used to intrusions, and had never been built for anything that size, come to that. He felt distantly disappointed in himself when he started to cry. Ripslinger leaned against him, crushing him into the forest floor as he waited for Dusty's flesh to accommodate him. The larger plane's eyes, suddenly calm and half-closed, had become a mockery of care and sympathy.

He further sandwiched Dusty between himself and the ground and began to move. Dusty screamed in anguish, his own hearing barely registering it. He thrashed, trying to get around the intense, violating pain and force Ripslinger off of him. Even as he fought, the Mustang never looked down at him. His glazed-over eyes were fixed on something ahead of him. Never stopping, never altering; the end as inevitable as a fall off a cliff. Dusty eventually gave in, willing himself to go placid and numb, the words from the dream repeating in his head like a broken record.

 _"You will be responsible,_ _ **forever,**_ _for what you have tamed."_


	13. Sympathy For the Devil(Explicit Content)

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

The pain was indescribable. Dusty tried to get a grip on something vital, something that would distract him and take his mind off of the unspeakable, but failed over and over again. He had already given up struggling to get free apart from the occasional, fretful writhing whenever his pain tolerance would reach it's peak, as if the action would somehow alleviate it, if even for a little bit. At least that's what he kept telling himself would happen. It just wasn't going away. It showed no signs of eventually just dying down into discomfort, remaining a constant, wrenching agony as relentless as the thrusting of the P-51 holding him down.

Ripslinger, for his part, didn't even really seem to be enjoying himself that much. He'd become very buttoned up once forcing himself inside the smaller racer, only the barest traces of pleasure flitting across his face every so often as he breathed forceful puffs of pants in time with his regular, just seeming-to-go-through-the-motions thrusting, his eyes focused somewhere on the horizon. Dusty's lip started to curl in a small, bitter sneer, his eyes narrowing. Here this bastard was raping him and he wasn't even getting anything out of it!

The smaller plane felt his frame begin to tighten up like a coiling spring in anger at the thought, including the part of him that was currently commandeered. Dusty gave gave a faltering cry of pain as he realized his mistake and once again attempted detachment. Before he could calm himself down a new, strange feeling began to creep into his being. Some cold, intangible thing permeating through his plating; searching. He shuddered with a disgusted, tormented sob as it slithered and split off like live things feeling up his insides to add insult to injury. But that was only the beginning as the tendrils apparently found what they were looking for, latching onto it as a burning, corrosive pain went ripping through the left side of his body.

Dusty screamed in agony as he began thrashing once again in earnest, nearly dislodging Ripslinger and breaking him from the trance-like state he'd fallen into. Suddenly seeming to remember the actual task at hand, he snarled down at the former-crop duster writhing underneath him.

"You stop you're fucking screaming!"

"RIPSLINGER, STOP!"

The green and black plane paused, but not before pulling Dusty back into him as far as he could, eliciting another agonized scream to come tearing from the smaller plane's throat, fresh tears beginning to fall.

"You want more? I'll fucking _give_ you another reason to keep on screaming you little bitch!"

"IT HURTS! STOP HURTING ME!"

Riplinger's engine snorted in cruel mockery.

"Why should I?"

He placed a wheel on each of Dusty's wings, pushing unmercifully onto the one he'd nearly ripped off earlier, boring down on him and crushing him deeper into the forest floor. It was too much. Too many different kinds of torturous pain assaulting different parts of him all at once, along with an odd, yet innate feeling of distress. That something important deep inside were being bent toward its breaking point. Dusty's faculties were beginning to fail him. All the color was leeching out of the environment, turning everything into pale silhouettes of itself. Monster... He was nothing but a...

[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

XXxx

 _"...Monster!"_

 _A snapping pain popped against one of his propeller blades, checking him hard as he struggled against his bindings. His engine going full-bore now, he turned as far as he could and snapped at the man holding what looked like some sort of enhanced cattle-prod._

 _"I said get the fuck **off** me!" the checker-marked plane snarled, trying with all his might to get lose and tear the humans scuttling around his body to pieces. _

_"You'll sit still or I'm gonna let you have it **again**!"_

 _" **Fuck** you, you gelatinous mutant motherfucker! I'm going splatter every single one of you all over the walls of this place when I get out of these!"_

 _They went about affixing strange wires to a spot just behind his left wing. He growled and squirmed at the feeling of their soft, alien hands against him. That blonde bastard with the glasses was there, overseeing the activities. Ripslinger had made the connection that he was the head honcho in this god-forsaken place early on, the other planes only referring to him in particular as "the Doctor". He felt anger flare up in him. Motherfucker probably wasn't even a real doctor. Science, his left tail-fin; there was nothing scientific about what they were doing here. That man was a sadist._

 _The wires ran from where they were fastened to the many nodes centered behind his wing to an odd-looking machine. It seemed unreasonably huge, taking up a large part of the wall that it was against, looking like some devilish pipe-organ. The Doctor stood at the controls, and everybody cleared from around the racer at his signal. He twisted something and almost at once Ripslinger was hit with a bad chill as an introduced warmth started to pervade over and through the spot where all the wires were fastened._

 _It started out as just a mild, tingling discomfort, but soon began to grow in intensity as he felt a quickening throughout his body, like something was squirming and cringing away from the strange electric current forcing its way into him. Then he was suddenly struck by a deep, innate fear. A gritty, black feeling began to creep up and seize a hold of him and he was struck by a tetter of dread and panic that somehow he felt were not entirely his own._

 _The doctor then turned the dial up, transferring all power to the machine, grinning up at the P-51 as he continued to try and yank himself free. Pain then exploded throughout his entire body, as if every hose, fluid line and the like had suddenly had a charlie horse. His body arched up, his flaps raising and trembling as the energy went coursing and tearing through his frame. His teeth were gritted, eyes shut tight as he fought with all his might to keep from screaming._

 _Ripslinger hated begging; more than anything. He knew he was stuck, that he was in pain, and had a chilling, inherent sense of trepidation and impending doom. With shame he suddenly realized he wanted someone to come and save him. Wanted someone to take the hurt away. To hold him until he stopped crying. When had he started crying? He couldn't hold himself back anymore; the pain and heat were becoming overwhelming, and he could feel a deeper, invasive anguish in the heart of him. As if something were threatening to give way. In all his pain, anxiety, and urgent feelings of inevitability, he began to scream._

 _"No! Stop it!" he cried out desperately as he felt his strength and integrity start to leave him. He dropped down, his left landing gear giving way as he struggled to keep himself up with his right, but it, too, failed him and he fell to the ground in his bindings. Still scrabbling feebly, he continued to cry out in anguish._

 _"Stop, please! Just..."_

XXxx

"...STOP IT NOW!" Dusty heard himself scream.

And he did. Ripslinger was frozen on top of him, an expression of tormented, sorrowful lassitude fallen over his face. He knew. He knew what Dusty had somehow seen, and that he'd somehow felt what the little orange plane underneath him was thinking in the last few moments. The memory had been triggered too quickly for it to be simply overlooked and go unnoticed in favor of the current activities.

Slowly, Ripslinger slid off of him, Dusty sucking in a sharp, pained gasp as he pulled out. The young plane quickly scrambled away as he was let up, but only got so far as his beaten and battered frame began to protest. So against his better judgment he turned back to Ripslinger. The green and black Mustang stared at him. Watched as the little plane shook, panting and bleeding from the many savage bite wounds he'd inflicted earlier, sunk into his landing gear in coldly bemused shock.

"Go away..." Ripslinger tried to put authority in his voice as he turned away from him, the rather pitiful look of bitter embarrassment taking away from the effect, "Leave me alone."

Of course he gladly would have, if even just given the choice, and yet... Dusty's demeanor changed; he seemed to deflate a bit, the tense, adrenalized trembling gone from his body as he looked at the larger plane, his face melting into questioning sympathy with eyes that seemed just a bit duller now than Ripslinger was used to. He hated pity, and he certainly couldn't have Dusty Crophopper of all people pitying him, and despite everything, try as he might, Dusty just could not help feeling sorry for the poor bastard after what he'd seen and was now quickly catching onto.

Dusty cautiously approached him, and to his surprise he backed away. Emboldened by his otherwise lack of response, Dusty pushed forward, but was immediately checked as Ripslinger reared up, lifting off his front landing gear slightly before making a mock lunge at him, his wheels slamming back down as his engine blew with a short, harsh flutter, leaves, dirt and pine needles being thrown up at the impact.

" _Don't_ do it!" he snarled at the orange and white racer through clenched teeth.

It was a typical defensive threat display, and it nearly did the trick in the abrupt movement coupled with the noise of the P-51's engine and the weight of him hitting the forest floor, emaciated as he was. It was all Dusty could do not to turn tail and flee at such an action, but he remained steadfast. What was his problem? Did he think he was going to attack him? Ripslinger relaxed minutely when Dusty came to a halt, but then the larger plane felt a trembling in his landing gear. _No... Not now..._

Dusty noticed the tell-tale tremors as well and watched Ripslinger's expression darken down further into defensiveness as he backed further away. Looking him in the eye, as if to portray a sense that he meant him no harm, Dusty began to move forward again, not unlike a moth entranced by a flame.

"Don't come any closer," the checker-marked plane warned, but his tail was at the treeline now.

Mercifully, Dusty stopped again, only mere inches from the larger plane. They stared at one another for a time, each seeming to wait for the other to move first. Then Dusty surprised them both, surging up to press his lips intently against the green and black Mustang's. He felt Ripslinger suck in a startled breath through his intakes, but he immediately let it back out in a fervent groan and opened his mouth to the smaller plane's. There it was again. That strange, urgent tug that he felt the other night through Dusty's desperate attempts to comfort him. The shaking had stopped, the cycling suddenly paused, a strange feeling telling him he needed to pay attention.

Having no clue of what he was even doing, Dusty's tongue slipped between his teeth and lips, delving into Ripslinger's mouth, dragging along and exploring some of the larger, pointed rear teeth before slobbing over the flat plane of the P-51's tongue. The former crop-duster could feel the same tug deep down inside of himself, giving him a sense of persistence. An odd feeling telling him he needed to give it another chance. He felt arousal stir in his belly in spite of himself at the soft rumbling of Ripslinger's engine as the larger plane released an aw-ing sigh into his mouth. Still in disbelief at his own actions, Dusty, broke the kiss. They stared, both panting in heated uncertainty.

"What?" Ripslinger breathed, finding himself unable to say anything more intelligent.

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

Dusty, giving him a look that could only be described as demure, moved around to his left side, and Ripslinger flinched up and away as he felt the warmth and wetness of the orange and white plane's tongue lick him in the spot near where the aft of his wing joined his body. As he tilted over, Dusty nosed and nudged himself underneath him. He felt and heard Ripslinger give a choked gasp as he clambered over the top the smaller plane.

"Wha- What are you doing?"he asked, his voice almost sounding like he were close to panic.

After some maneuvering Dusty felt the tip of Ripslinger's still hard and ready cock at his entrance. Ignoring the pain, he backed up into him, forcing his entire length inside of him. He felt it slip into areas of him that he knew probably shouldn't be played with. Giving a quiet whimper, he pulled forward, then back as his tail rolled up, arching him back inside of him. Ripslinger's face was flitting between confusion and utter horror.

"Stop! What the hell are you doing?!"

The hell of it was is that Dusty had about as much a clue as he did. Maybe he was taking the chance to turn the tables and use him while he was still vulnerable. Maybe some part of him thought it would make him feel better. Or maybe he'd just snapped through all the trepidation and stress since this whole ordeal started and finally lost his mind. He moved back against the larger plane on top of him again... and again... Faint sensations of pleasure began to slowly bubble up to the surface, and Dusty began to actually enjoy himself, despite who he was with. He could feel Ripslinger shaking over the top of him, only this time not in warning of another psychotic episode. Although he seemed to be on the verge of falling apart all the same.

"Get off me..." he murmured, "...Going to fucking _kill_ you... Do you understand m- oh..."

He was instinctually prompted to start thrusting again at the feel of the younger plane's silky walls enveloping him and sliding over the many ribs and ridges that lined the underside of his throbbing phallus, gradually going around the circumference about three quarters of the way down. Whereas before he had been totally measured, each breath, each thrust, each little noise he allowed himself to make being steady as a metronome, he was now quickly dissolving into panting, heavy breathing, and incoherent whimpering. His body slunk down into the smaller plane beneath him as they both tried to keep up the rhythm. He was groaning feverishly, trying to keep his eyes open as Dusty writhed against the weight, enjoying the feeling of Ripslinger just covering him.

A voice was speaking, but there were no words. No sound. It was almost as if it were made up of pure emotion, intention, and understanding. Something that could only be found in dreams, and could only be truly understood in dreams. Dusty felt the little slivers and wisps of tendrils enter his body once again, only this time there was no pain. They were soft, caressing as they were drawn toward the heart of him, as if apologizing. Desperate. Pleading.

Ripslinger could feel it too. A flash of passion, and both planes had the distinct sense that they were linked for the moment at their most basic, vital levels. The odd presence from Dusty's body sending feelings of recognition, of announcement that it was there, and understanding to the apologizing source. Most importantly, letting it know that it forgave it.

Ripslinger was pressing Dusty down into the ground again. His face was now contorted, flaps and ailerons tense and shaking with the strain as he frantically bucked against the orange and white racer. Dusty bit his lip against the onslaught, little hints of pain making themselves known again amongst the ever blossoming pleasure, heightening it. Then abruptly, the connection broke, and a moment later Ripslinger's breathing suddenly quickened, and then his engine growled into his moans as he hit his peak, not slowing in his thrusting in the least as he rode out his orgasm.

Dusty could feel his own orgasm upon him, the warning, fluttering sensation about to break with the sound and vibration of Ripslinger's engine as he came. As he felt himself being filled, the feelings of euphoria finally washed over the dam and he let out a screaming wail, the farthest thing from pain.

Even at this point he still couldn't believe it. Almost like he were watching it happen to someone else. That couldn't be _him_ making all that noise. Those couldn't be _his_ wings that Ripslinger was using his landing gear to pull him back into him even deeper, hard enough to threaten them to start to snap. Couldn't be. He absently wondered as he felt Ripslinger slow to a stop above him, breathing so hard that his overheated engine became involved, fluttering with every exhale, how exactly he was going to explain his injuries away to the rest of the group.

[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

XXxx

 _"Oh Rip, you're always so quiet."_

 _He smiled over at her._

 _"Is that bad?"_

 _"Not at all!" she giggled._

 _It was a time and a moment that he had almost effectively purged from his memory. Made it so that it was almost like it had never happened. There had been no good times. Things always were the way they were now. This long-forgotten, kindly place wouldn't last. It was never meant to last anyway. It was typical really. You'd think people could surprise you, but in the end, she never stayed. They never stayed._

 _Why didn't anyone ever stay?_


	14. Bend Test (Explicit Content)

The next few weeks had been nothing short of a veritable roller coaster for Dusty. In the days following Ripslinger's attack in the woods, he had been even more distant and cold to him than before. Not that Dusty was all too concerned. They had both rather avoided each other as much as they could, let alone so much as speak of the incident. One small mercy was that his friends were leaving him alone well enough. It took a lot of him running interference, but eventually they did back off, reluctantly.

For all the awkwardness in the aftermath, no amount of that could keep Dusty away for long, and eventually as things settled back down and tensions eased up he was back to trying to encourage Ripslinger to behave less like a robot, which was easier said than done. Most of his time was spent in some form of dozing; he just could not seem to get enough sleep, although Dusty couldn't quite tell if this was another one of the P-51's "quirks" or if it was because he hardly ever slept properly at night. He would constantly shift restlessly in his sleep. Only when the sun started to come up, its soft, early morning light slowly filtering into the hangar, would he finally settle down and sleep more soundly.

And all the times the little orange and white plane had ever tried to comfort or snuggle up next to him, at best he'd been treated to one of Ripslinger's infamous hiss-snarls and told off. The worst he'd gotten was when he'd tried to wake him up during an apparently bad dream. The smaller plane didn't really remember much from the incident other than the feeling the immense crush of Ripslinger's jaws closing over his nose before he could get out of the way, teeth sinking right down into his engine compartment before he had come to and quickly let him go. He could just barely recall the disoriented shock on the P-51's face upon becoming fully awake, and the odd way that his voice sounded as he radioed for Dottie.

And so Dusty added that to his Rules For Interacting With Ripslinger, right along side "Wait until at least ten-thirty in the morning before pestering him to get out of bed". Although he thought maybe he should put an asterisk on that one. One day, bored, he'd gone back to his hangar to see if the green and black Mustang was at least in the beginnings of getting up and around, only to find him still fast asleep. He eyed the larger plane, and then, seeming to forget who he was dealing with, hopped into bed right up next to him.

"How do you sleep so much?" he had asked, pushing at the larger plane. "Wake up, you lazy thing; you don't need it."

He heaved himself up with his landing gear over Ripslinger's back and shook him, but then went scrambling off, hunkering back down behind him in wide-eyed caution when the checker-marked racer let out a long-suffering sigh.

"What do you want, Dusty?"

"Nothing."

"If that were the case, you'd still be out playing with the Corsair and that human, now what is it?"

"Nothing," Dusty repeated, hopping back up, the P-51 trying to shrug him off. "I just want you to wake up now."

He squirmed down against him in mischievous glee, failing to notice how Ripslinger's frame had been tensing up in irritation. Then suddenly he flew up from his position on the sleeping mat, knocking Dusty off of him before swiftly coming back around and pinning him down, his weight crushing him into the padding. A low, rumbling growl and a corrosive hissing emanated from his engine right next to the little window behind Dusty's left eye, and he recoiled underneath the larger plane.

 _This must be how_ _ **they**_ _feel..._ he thought, thinking about Ned and Zed and wondering how many times they had ever gone through this being in such close, constant quarters with the likes of the Grand Champion racer. _I don't know how they stand it._

Dusty trembled, the close contact and pressure on top of him bringing back memories that were still fresh, but then he felt it ease up just slightly, the growling and hissing starting to die down.

"Not today, Dusty..."

The young plane subsided, visibly shaken as Ripslinger let him back up. Dusty was about to get up off the sleeping mat when the checker-marked plane lifted his bulk up and went stalking out of the hangar, leaving the orange and white racer blinking in his wake.

It was truly astounding as it was confusing. The speed of which Ripslinger could go from almost seeming to give a damn to suddenly turning aggressive and cold was enough to make one's head spin. Of course now Dusty would have welcomed that sort of treatment in place of how things were to soon turn out between them. It had started out slow to the point where it was hardly even noticeable, and seemed to grow in intensity correlated to how much weight Ripslinger had been gaining. They were small little things, odd little moments that would come and go before Dusty even knew what had hit him. Once Dottie had deemed his system strong enough, he was allowed back onto a regular diet, and as predicted his weight had increased rapidly, nearly gaining half of what he'd lost so far. And the more weight he gained back and the better he began to feel again, the more inappropriate his behavior started to get, and the more the pressure began to grow between the two planes.

Every time they were close enough to each other, Dusty would feel that familiar prickle go over his plating and an odd squirming feeling would quicken in the heart of him. But then again, other times he would feel an odd pull in response to the intrusions. Ripslinger gave no indication whatsoever whether or not he was feeling the same conflicting sensations within himself, until one night everything seemed to have reached a precipice.

Dusty was on his side of the hanger with a desk light next to his sleeping mat, flipping through the latest crop of sporting magazines to come in the mail while Ripslinger was on his side of the hangar, already asleep for the night. Or at least Dusty thought he was sleeping until he was nearly scared right out of his paint when he felt a heavy weight hunker down into him accompanied by a rumbling, gurgling growl. No matter how used to it Dusty would eventually get, it never ceased to amaze and unnerve him just how quick and stealthy Ripslinger could move on the ground for a plane his size.

"Ah, Chrysler, Rip! What are you-"

He was stifled down into stillness, swallowing his words in a soft gasp as another steamy growl went rumbling and blowing over the smaller plane's plating and a bite, although quite light, gripped him in his back right behind his canopy. What the hell was this? Ripslinger never initiated this amount contact with anybody, and the few times he had ever let Dusty sit close with him, for some reason he only could tolerate it for so long before growing agitated and antsy, as if a bad tetter were roving over him. Was he doing this in his sleep? But just then Dusty felt something hard lightly poke him in the side as the green and black plane ground down on him, and he immediately felt a shiver crawl over his plating as a look of horror crossed over his face. _No no no no no..._

"Whoa, whoa, Rip! Rip wake up!" he shouted shakily as he rustled and wiggled underneath the larger plane.

"I am awake," came the response that chilled Dusty all the way down to his core.

And as, one after the other, a pair of jet black landing gear placed themselves in front of his wings, the dim light from the lamp gleaming orange off the lacquer, panic began to set in. He was trapped.

"No... Rip!"

"Be still... I wanna see about something," Ripslinger said, tightening down on the little plane beneath him.

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

He tilted Dusty, causing his tail to raise up as he probed around with his hard and eager phallus in an attempt to wedge it in between the plates of his ventral access panel. The orange and white racer squirmed as Ripslinger began to succeed in painfully making his way through, and he started up struggling a bit as he pushed the tip in, his engine making a distressed, pained sort of squeaking noise.

"Shh... Just let me do this... Please..."

There was that odd tone in his voice again. Maybe it was the "please" that caught Dusty off guard. Whatever the reason, he relented then, his ventral access panel opening and sliding back, giving Ripslinger full access to him. The former crop duster tried to relax as he entered him the rest of the way, failing somewhat as he breathed hard through his intake, biting his lip with his eyes shut tight, and once fully sheathed the Mustang was still as he was mounted atop him. The crackling static that had been ever present and steadily growing between the two planes ever since Ripslinger had come up and startled him had suddenly strengthened into a solid line, which seemed to be what the P-51 was waiting for. He sighed audibly, his frame slumping against Dusty's as he felt the link open, the ceaseless frantic, desperate fluttering and racing in his core quelling down into near stillness, and both planes were suddenly inundated with the same feelings and sensations as before during that painful, confusing, and yet curiously alluring time in the woods.

Dusty could feel a pressure growing in the center of his self, a weight settling in, as if something was leaning tiredly against it, seeking comfort. And he relaxed somewhat as he felt the sensation become a part of him, letting out a small, exhaling cry more of discomfort that of any real pleasure as Ripslinger began to finally move above him.  
It wasn't quite as terrible as the last time, but he did end up getting just as chewed up. As Ripslinger neared his peak, his growling had abruptly taken on an almost frustrated tone and he began gnawing awfully over Dusty's frame. The smaller plane had been unable to find release himself, the pain being far too great as he gasped and cried out in protest despite how nicely the Mustang was thrusting into him. The episode had earned him another trip to Dottie's garage. By some miracle his friends were still staying out of it, although Skipper had been rather overbearing as Dusty was in getting patched up. Thank Chrysler for Thortrazepam.

[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

This indecent, however, was just the beginning as Ripslinger had apparently put two and two together now after his little "experiment". In the following days, he had struck randomly, and once Dusty's body had adapted as much as it probably ever would to the P-51's attentions, it would practically happen on a daily basis. Dusty tolerated it so much as it honestly did seem to be having more or less positive effects otherwise. He appeared much calmer, and more toned down and stabilized personality-wise, which the orange and white racer was gratefully relieved for, especially given Ripslinger's increasingly worrying behavior toward Clarice. In addition, his seizure-like episodes were fewer and far less intense than they had been. It was encouraging enough to withstand the lack of foreplay or pillow talk for just being dragged over onto Ripslinger's sleeping mat and getting straight to business. It had almost become routine; he may as well have been dating the bastard.

If one could say this kind of situation could get better, it had, at least a little bit. The larger plane had started showing sympathy of a sort; so long as Dusty didn't fight him, Ripslinger wouldn't hurt him. At least not on purpose as much as he could help it. A simple agreement, albeit an unspoken one. No matter how much Dusty had adapted however, there were always sore spots and even small wounds from Ripslinger's teeth here and there the next day, and he had gotten annoyed early on that the smaller plane wasn't recovering as fast as he apparently thought he would. Dusty had retorted that it was because he was never given any time _to_ recover, but in reality it wasn't so much that he wasn't healing as quickly as much as it was whatever endurance and tolerance he was able to gain as the days went by, Ripslinger would then take him for everything he was worth by night again, his own sexual stamina apparently being boundless.

For all the improvements it appeared to bring about, the phenomenon that spurred the whole thing off didn't happen with every coupling, in fact it rarely ever happened more than twice in a row, but each time Dusty could feel some intangible grasping and clawing at some baser part of him. Sometimes this essence would resist stubbornly, and the former-crop duster would then be subject to a horrible, corroding pain all up and down his left side as he bit into the cushioning of Ripslinger's sleeping mat to muffle his screams. Other times it would relent, allowing the intruding presence in, scolding all the while as the green and black plane fucked him, the biting and chewing inevitably starting up upon nearing release. They were odd these feelings. They were almost like the sensations he felt when he and Skipper would sit close or nap together or sometimes when they were sparring, but decidedly not right. Unhealthy. Broken from Ripslinger's end.

Dusty would get a reprieve from that part at least, however, as the boys had arrived back from L.A. for a visit, care of Kurtis Kyker, Ripslinger's personal touring plane, as if the flashy, attention-grabbing livery were any indication. Green on top of course, sporting a canary yellow belly with blue violet checker-markings covering his entire underside that continued up to wrap around the end of his tail. Strictly speaking though, the 747's size alone was usually enough to get garner anyone's attention as he sauntered off Propwash junction's main runway with the usual mellow, unimpressed air of your typical airliner.

The very instant Ned and Zed saw Ripslinger, they both rushed him, jumping all over their leader and licking and nuzzling him like they hadn't seen him in years. And although he didn't really return any of their affections, the Mustang honestly did seem happy to see them, but only tolerated it for so long before that switch of his suddenly flipped and he snarled them off. They immediately dispersed, cowering into their landing gear in apology, looking thoroughly scolded as everyone physically and metaphorically scratched their heads at witnessing such perplexing behavior. Later, they all milled about curiously as the twins unloaded a few requested items from Kurtis' cargo hold.

"My music!" Ripslinger cried in dramatic salvation, upon Zed presenting him with his MP3 player. "The radio is such slag around here, you have no idea what it's like!"

Dusty rolled his eyes, but then they widened at the sight of something quite unexpected that Ned was rolling down the ramp from the cargo hold.

"Where do you want these?" he grunted.

"Just roll those over to Dusty's hangar, will you?"

"Tractor tires?" Skipper commented with a touch less incredulity that was currently showing on everyone else's face, "What the hell do you use 'em for?"

"My tractor," Ripslinger answered curtly, the smart-assery very palpable.

The boys were going to be staying for a little while, and Dusty breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that he would finally get a break with Ripslinger being otherwise occupied with his cohorts. Instead, the next morning found him full of cramp and exhaustion recovering from the night before, feeling worn out and very used up. Ripslinger had woken up rather early this time around and had already headed out. Despite their activities together, Dusty still felt miles away from him. All this and the larger plane still could barely handle just simply sitting together, let alone even let him sleep with him when they were done. One night, not knowing what he was thinking had actually tried to voice his displeasure and overall opinion on the situation after once again being unceremoniously shooed away.

"You know, it really hurts when you just..."

Ripslinger looked over at him as he laid down to sleep then, his gaze not exactly receptive but waiting for him to continue. But then Dusty sighed, saying,"Nevermind..." as he miserably crawled up onto his own sleeping mat and attempted to get some sleep himself. His body and mind were just so overwhelmed. The little racer was no virgin, but had never been on the receiving end of such an activity, and his yet to be fully mature frame was utterly unprepared or even ready for such an extreme amount of sexual pressure and stimulation. Not that he was really getting all that much from it, especially contributed by the fact that Ripslinger just never made the right noises. Any engine noise he made during sex were harsh, fierce, and almost threatening. The farthest thing from anything even remotely related to what they were doing and it only added confusion to his frustration to the point where he would fail to reach orgasm about half the time, and those were fleeting, if not nearly painful due to the over-stimulation such treatment caused.

He wanted to cry out in frustration, to scream at him, to turn around and bite him, to fly away from his hometown and go somewhere far away and never come back. And all the while, at each coupling where that link, and the feelings of settlement and stabilization brought with it that Ripslinger had fast become addicted to, sexual gratification aside, was able to happen Dusty would be vaguely aware of that odd communication that always took place. Feelings of protest, of sympathy, of admonishment being met with feelings of desperation, of careless euphoria and contentment, of guilt, all jumbled out of order and impossible to tell exactly where which sentiments were coming from where. Ripslinger for his part, as always, gave no indication of whether or not he felt anything, almost seeming to forget Dusty altogether at times.

Seeking comfort, Dusty practically crawled to Skipper one day and cuddled up underneath him, prompting the old Corsair to lie down when he was prevented from otherwise going anywhere. Dusty let out a short puff of a weary sigh as he finally settled in after snuggling into his mentor as if he couldn't get close enough. At the contact, Skipper was immediately struck with concern, disturbed at what he felt from Dusty's state of self, the stress, the feelings of upset. But Dusty wasn't talking, and it was all he could do to be able to just offer what support he could as the little airplane drifted off to sleep, enveloped in the safety of his Bonded Companion's warmth and stalwart strength. And then he began to dream.

It was pretty and bright. The lawns were gorgeous and lush. There were well-matured flowers in carefully-tended beds and smells everywhere. It was nice here. Dusty had never been to this place before, but he thought he knew where he was, having known about it and seen pictures, only the large statue of a certain P-51 Mustang was missing from the middle of one of the more grandiose gardens.

As he further took in the environment around him, a small plane approached him. It was a Mustang. A very young Mustang from its size, just slightly bigger than himself, and the four little buds of propeller blades just starting to poke through. He couldn't have been more than eight years old. A thin off-white stripe separated his blue paint job from its red underbelly, which had darker red checker marks covering it as opposed to the pale-blue crescent shaped saddle markings all down his back. The young P-51 smiled at him as if he knew him, and it was funny, but Dusty also thought that this plane seemed very familiar. The friendly stranger then beckoned to him, dipping his nose and jerking it back up.

Dusty looked at the young plane, hesitant and confused. Normally he wouldn't be so unsure, but his weariness and torment had followed him into this dream that he didn't yet know was a dream, and held him where he was. The Mustang tried again, bowing down slightly on his landing gear, his body language saying, "Come play with me!". And so then Dusty set aside his inhibitions and obliged the other plane. They chased each other over the plush grass, sparred a bit, rearing up slightly, faking each other out before the chase would begin again. It was rather fun playing with a plane closer to his own size, but his thoughts inevitably floated back to his troubling situation as they always did, and their play was stalled.

He sagged, downtrodden, in his landing gear, and the young Mustang turned, concern coming over his features. He stopped in front of Dusty, nuzzling his cheek and giving it a lick before pulling away, a hopeful, sympathetic smile meeting the orange and white plane's slightly dulled blue eyes. He woke up shortly after, the dream causing him to feel very strange for the rest of the day. What was that? He could have sworn he had met that plane somewhere before.

He was still pondering it the next morning, unable to get it out of his head as he lay in bed. He looked up when he heard Ripslinger give a cough, but went back to his thoughts when he saw that the green and black plane was still sleeping. Then he began to cough a little more. Then he woke up as coughing soon turned into choking and gasping, and he struggled to sit up as his expression quickly became panicked. Dusty immediately jumped to go to his aid, bracing him up, and as he leaned over the smaller plane, gagging, inky black fluid began to pour and drip from his mouth like a faucet.

Dusty cried out in surprise and slight disgust as the tarry fluid, which felt oddly freezing cold, spilled and splattered down onto him and the floor. He slowly began to get weighed down more and more as waves of tremors began to go through Ripslinger's body, his landing gear buckling. It was over quickly enough, Dusty gently helping him lower back down onto his sleeping mat as the last of the quakes left him, the checker-marked racer breathing measured and steady through the burning pain in his frame. As Dusty slowly backed away, he spoke at length.

"Why do you continue to help me?" he asked. "All I ever do is torment you and cause you pain."

"Because I made a promise that I would," Dusty answered softly, not specifying who he'd made that promise to, but knowing that Ripslinger probably already knew based on his response.

"Shouldn't have don't that, should you?" he mocked, although his expression was severe as he stared him down.

"Well I'm not going to take it back now," Dusty retorted, staring him straight back dead in the eyes, and the P-51 seemed somewhat taken aback as his expression darkened down somewhat in thought.

Dusty had been sporting a mostly non-teeth-marked frame for a while now, having found out what the pair of large tractor tires that were a current fixture of his hangar were for, odd as it was. He had gone into his hangar to find Ripslinger going to town on one of them. Dusty froze. Now it wasn't an uncommon or unusual thing for aircraft or sometimes other vehicles to chew things, especially if they were stressed. Hell, Dusty had a few chews that really came in handy during racing season to take some of the pressure off of his teeth when he was prone to grinding them, but it was the familiar way in which Ripslinger grasped and gnawed on the tire that disturbed him and sent phantom pains popping up over various spots over his frame.

It only got weirder when, seemingly unable to temper himself to lighter bites during one of their nightly romps, he had actually leaned over where one of the tires was kept close by and started chewing with a vengeance. Dusty had even caught him once or twice doing it in his sleep. The little orange and white plane just didn't quite know what to make of it. A human seeing this behavior might think that it was cute. Dog-like even, and therefor positive, but other aircraft walking in on him would definitely think it unusual and surprising, and would probably re-evaluate any interactions they were about to have with him. He had thought nothing could be as strange as that, until he woke up two nights later to Ripslinger resting his front on the edge of his sleeping mat.

"I couldn't sleep," he said, "I needed to ask you something."

"What time is it?" Dusty mumbled, looking blearily around for the alarm clock.

"You saved my life once. You _had_ to have cared about me, didn't you?" the larger plane implored.

 _What?_

"Rip?"

"Have you ever talked to the boys? Ned and Zed?"

"No, not really. But it's not hard to tell that they absolutely adore you, although I'll never understand why. They'd probably follow you to the ends of the earth."

"Like lemons off a cliff..."

"What?"

"I don't understand why you left me like that," he continued, not looking at him.

Dusty was getting more and more confused now. It was as if Ripslinger were having two conversations with two different people at the same time, even though they were the only ones in the hangar as far as he could see and hear in the darkness.

"I know I'm not a very gentle plane," Ripslinger went on, "Not friendly. I understand I'm always going to be the one left behind."

"Ripslinger, what are you talking about?"

"Do you remember what life was like before I started racing?"

At that point, Dusty started consciously trying to wake himself up as it seemed as whatever dementia the Mustang might be experiencing, it sounded like he was about to reveal something important. Something that Dusty could use, to try to make sense of why Ripslinger was the way he was, but then the conversation flipped again.

"Have you told Skipper about our little arrangement?"

"No, he doesn't need to know, none of them do."

"It would never make sense to them anyway," conceded the green and black plane. "It doesn't even make sense to me. As soon as this thing is over, you'll just up and disappear again, so why should a believe a damn thing you say?" his tone changed now to one of accusatory anger. "Did you ever care if I was around? Did you ever worry about me when I was off on my own?"

"What?" Dusty, even though he was unsure of who he might be directing this to, kept engaging him anyway. "Rip, no, I wasn't around then, I didn't even know you. How can I remember something I never experienced?"

"I knew I shouldn't have asked," the checker-marked racer said, getting up briskly and rolling back over to his side of the hangar, collapsing onto his own sleeping mat with a rough sigh.

Dusty stared, quite unsettled and baffled by the experience. But it did give him an idea. Talk to the twins. He found them on the grass, both vying for Clarice's attention.

"Hey!" he greeted as he approached the group, "Clarice, can I talk to the boys real quick?"

"Sure, see you later guys."

"Aw, do you have to?" Zed whined.

"Don'tcha wanna see how alike we are?" Ned asked imploringly but with a suggestive smile.

"No," the human girl admonished with a wry smile of her own. "You guys don't think I've sussed you out already?"

"Damn!" Ned hissed, trying to feign disappointment but failing to cover up a jesting smile.

"Maybe later," Clarice laughed as she continued to play along, giving each a scratch under the chin before taking her leave. "Try to get along guys."

"Don't worry, we will!" Zed called after her.

"Boy, are you guys whipped," Dusty remarked as he settled down in the grass with them.

"Whipped nothin', she's really, really nice," Ned shot back unabashedly.

"Yeah, and she's soft and warm and pets us!" Zed joined in.

Dusty let out a soft, humored flutter from his engine, although he wasn't going to argue with them there. It was rather endearing how smitten they were with her. In fact Dusty wouldn't be surprised at all if they grew protective of her even against their own boss if he tried anything while they were here, although he had mostly been leaving her alone lately.

It was amazing how civil they could be, really, when not under Ripslinger's orders, but it was still a bit awkward for him to speak to them, though not for the reason one might think. Interacting with the brothers could be a very strange and overwhelming experience for anyone, even for those who know them best. Their movements, their way of speaking, so fluid and coordinated at times that it was as if the two planes were being controlled by one consciousness, with the twins being utilized almost like you would use your right and left hands.

"So uh..." Dusty began. Gosh, where to begin? "You guys have known Rip for a while now, huh?"

"Uh yeah," Ned answered.

"We've been all been working together for five years now!" Zed added proudly before giving his green-fronted brother a sour look when he muttered, "Six."

"What all do you know about him? I mean like before he got into racing," Dusty asked.

The twin Zivko's seemed to think on it for a few minutes before Zed made a shrugging gesture as he looked to Ned, who shook his front.

"Not a whole lot, actually," the green-fronted plane said.

"Stuff like that just never came up, you know?" Zed admitted.

"Huh."

"Heck, we didn't even know who he was before we got into racing. In fact we never thought about racing or anything like that until we all met," Ned went on.

"Really?" This was news to Dusty, "What were you guys into before?"

"Stealing," Zed answered simply in a rather chipper, but guileless tone.

"Beg your pardon?" Dusty managed after a second or to of silence.

"You heard right," Ned confirmed, "We were both thieves in a gang."

"The best ones they had!" Zed added.

"Seriously?" Dusty asked again, still not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Yeah, seriously! We spent most of our younger years scoring anything and everything we could use or else sell," Ned went on.

"Gee, uh... I had no idea," Dusty stammered, as if things couldn't get any more awkward, "Must have been pretty tough. I mean being so young and all and being criminals already."

"Ah, don't feel too bad," said Zed.

"It was a pretty good living, at least until we stole from someone who could out-fly us."

Dusty was incredulous, but there was no need to ask who that someone was. There were few planes indeed that could have out-flown them.

"Best mistake we ever made!" Zed concluded.

"And so then they just hired you? Just like that? After you stole from Ripslinger himself?"

"I don't know, he seemed to actually kind of like us. Maybe he was impressed," Ned thought on it, "Anyway, I guess he'd had so much fun chasing and catching us that they hired us on as a sort of entourage. You know, keep him company, give him some good exercise here and there, that sort of deal."

"But pretty soon they were so impressed with our flyin' that they signed us as actual team mates and trained us to fly races," continued Zed, "So long as we promised we wouldn't steal anything anymore."

"Not that we'd ever need to; they take real good care of us. They take twenty off the top, of course, but we're still making crazy money and getting more pussy than we ever did when we were part of that gang."

"Totally worth twenty percent," Zed added.

"Things get pretty crazy then, huh?" Dusty reckoned.

"Oh yeah, between the after parties and all the invitations we get to come to clubs to draw crowds, you never knew there were so many smokin' ten out of ten chicks and just how much stuff can happen to a person even in just the span of forty-eight hours."

"Sounds pretty exhausting," Dusty commented with a wry, hooded stare.

"Yeah, especially when you're competing with somebody like Ripslinger," Ned went on. "We gotta work extra hard to find our own tail when we go out. Ain't no leftovers by the time he's done with them."

"Ah, it just ain't the boss' style to leave a lady wanting more to where she'll fuck with the side-kicks," Zed conceded.

Dusty's eyes widened by a fraction before he slunk down into his landing gear with a grimace, sighing in abashed realization. So it wasn't just him, it was just how Ripslinger was, although he couldn't decide whether or not he felt relieved or put out by this particular bit of information, and the notion that he would even be confused over such a thing bothered him somewhat.

"Yeah, that's sounds... that sounds really tough alright."

"Yeah, but he doesn't really stay out with us all that long," said Ned, "He'll hang out just long enough to snag himself some sweet little cutie pie to take back to the nest."

"Or two," Zed chimed in.

"Or three," Ned went on as the two brothers grinned at each other lecherously.

How in the world did he have the energy? Or the concentration for that matter? Dusty his wide-eyed, troubled face awash in a sort of hollow, foreboding disturbance, muttered, "I feel I'm going to be sick." in a level, almost inflectionless tone. After a "What?" and a "Huh?" from Ned and Zed, respectively, he shook himself out of it.

"Oh... Nothing," Dusty said, having heard about as much as he could stand, wanting to just hurry up now and go in for the kill, but absolutely dreading asking the question lest it bring up any suspicions. "So uh... Has he ever... You know... Tried anything on you guys?"

The twins seemed to start every so slightly at the question, glancing inquisitively at one another before answering.

"The guy never even lets us sleep with him for the simple sake of company and comfort," Ned started, "So, no. Not really."

"But you know," Zed joined in, his face taking on a wistful expression as his eyes slid over to the side thoughtfully, "I've always sort of hoped."

"You're so pathetic!" Ned broke in abruptly, snapping Zed out of his day-dreaming, where he quickly went on the offensive.

"You're one to talk, you rust-ridden, street-corner, cunt-jumper-"

Ned, a growl slowly rumbling up from his engine at the onslaught of insults, suddenly jumped him and the two engaged in a flurry of biting and snapping as they rolled over the ground. Dusty rolled his eyes and sighed. That escalated quickly. It was times like this that he needed to remind himself that, yes, he and the twins were the same age.

Well, as disturbing as the information that he got was, especially since it wasn't originally what he came to them for, it wasn't a complete waste of time. While he may not trust the two Zivkos with his wallet, he believed them when they said that they knew nothing of Ripslinger before they had all met. And it confirmed one more thing.

"I'm not gonna survive this," He wined.

Ripslinger meanwhile, was laying down in Dusty's hangar with the doors open, his eyes casually watching Clarice as she sat cross-legged on the tail-gate of Hugh's classic Chevy pick-up. The sun was setting behind her, almost making her form like a silhouette. Then Dusty rolled into view, his frame slumping and defeated.

The P-51 watched as he came up and behind Clarice and gently poked her with his nose cone. She abruptly turned around, seeming startled as she began to bring her hands up, Ripslinger supposing that she probably thought it was him, but once catching sight of Dusty and his expression however, she reached out, placing her hands on his nose, stroking a bit with her right as she spoke a few words, a concerned, questioning look on her face. He shook his front as he nuzzled further into her chest. Clarice spoke to him again, asking him something and giving the side of his nose a few pats. He shook his front once more, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. Ripslinger watched as she kissed him on his nose cone, sighing something that sounded like "Oh, Dusty..." but saying no more as she scooted up closer to him, embracing the front of him as she laid her head down on his hood and continued to stroke him soothingly. Ripslinger sighed softly as he stared at the small plane and even tinier human, his brow pinching slightly for a moment before his eyes slipped closed.

XXxx

Ripslinger stared around at his surroundings. Cartier butterflies fluttered and danced around the carefully planted and cultivated flowers. The grounds were just as bright and immaculate as he remembered them. He felt a shiver go through his frame as bad memories and feelings clawed at his insides. What was he doing back here?

The hotel had been remodeled from the looks of things. It wasn't too different from the way it looked before, but it seemed so much bigger the first time he'd seen it all those years ago. He watched the same crowds as back then milling about, waiting for the big show to start, and that's when he spotted her. It was her. Older now, bigger and more mature, but there was no mistaking it. It was her. She was here, back where it all began of all places.

He called out to her, his entire frame simply dripping with anxiousness and yet hope. She looked around at the sound of his voice and finally caught sight of him. She looked confused, as Ripslinger expected and thought she would; her paint scheme was exactly as he remembered it, but his had changed, and he was also a much different person, but that bridge would be crossed when the time came. He called her name again, and then recognition blossomed in her face. She smiled in disbelief, and began to make her way toward him.

Ripslinger exhaled in feverish anticipation, already aware of how insane he sometimes looked when he was happy. But she wasn't fazed. In fact she only seemed to become even more elated, her smile growing as she let out an all familiar, feminine giggle. And then Ripslinger almost lost it right then and there, taking everything he had to hold himself together. He moved to meet her, but as they neared each other, he was checked as her eyes suddenly flashed into a morbid shade of red.

"What?"

Suddenly her form began to change and grow, her paint scheme darkening down from the margins of her body toward her fuselage into a bleak and lusterless shade of black.

"No!"

Her frame continued to lengthen, growing exponentially bigger as it twisted, breaking and snapping out of itself until finally, it's engines roaring and bursting with hellfire, the black creature that seemed to forever plague him, always watching with its dispassionate presence as his nightmares and mania consumed him, stood before him. And Ripslinger, almost rearing up off his landing gear from shock and horror, felt all the happiness and hope from earlier drain right out of him, almost seeming to be sucked away by the shadowy monster as it began to advance upon him.

 _ **"No such thing... No such thing..."**_ the beast spoke in its cold, echoing voice. _**"You're not paying attention..."**_

Ripslinger weakly shook his front, tears of joy that he had been holding back suddenly coming up in full force as tears of incredulousness and despair.

"No... No, you can't do that, I was so close!" he tearfully shouted as everything around them was set ablaze, the flames consuming the very fabric of the horrific nightmare he'd been thrown into.

 _ **"Always... the same... mistake..."**_ the shadow echoed as its red eyes bored into him, the Mustang's tail to the fire now.

Meanwhile, Dusty had been woken up to the sound of restless shuffling and mumbling from Ripslinger's side of the hangar. He sleepily got up from his sleeping mat and crept toward the fretful P-51, mindful not to disturb him further, as the last time he woke Ripslinger up from a nightmare he had nearly killed him.

"You can't do that again..." the green and black plane muttered, tears beginning to stream down his fuselage before sobbing louder, "You can't!"

Dusty felt sorrow and pity begin to creep into his previously sleepily concerned expression. He hated this. He knew he shouldn't wake him; he could still feel the way the checker-marked plane's teeth had sunk through the his hood, but Dusty was never able to stand seeing anyone in such distress, especially coming from someone that you normally wouldn't expect it from. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't just leave him obviously suffering, and as he could stand no more he very quietly and gently leaned down and began to lick the tears away, ready to jump away the instant he stirred with more vigor. That was all, at least until he's awake and can see that he's safe in Dusty's hangar and away from whatever was tormenting him. He'd eventually calm down and snarl at him like he usually did and they would just go back to sleep on their respective sides of the room, but Ripslinger cringed away from his touch, whimpering and crying out.

Dusty was about to stop his ministrations, becoming aware that they might only be making things worse, when Ripslinger gave one last frightened, desperate shout and finally sprang awake. Dusty went scrambling away as the Mustang jumped to his landing gear, but turned back to face him when he otherwise didn't move from the spot. He stood there, sitting back in his tail gear as he frantically looked around, breathing hard and looking disoriented.

"Dusty..."

Ripslinger's call to him when his eyes finally fell up on him was thin and drawn as his throat was closed on tears, although the little orange and white plane couldn't quite place the tone in his voice. Could it have been relief? Could there have even been a touch of pleading? Whatever it was, he tried to push it down and replace it with a snarl and a glare, but gave up on it just as quickly as he broke back down into tears, sinking down onto his sleeping mat.

Dusty simply watched for a few moments, his face an look of soft consideration before moving forward, toward the sobbing P-51. He leaned down a bit, until they were nearly nose to nose, and after a moment's hesitation, moved up to give the side of Ripslinger's a quick, gentle nuzzle. Ripslinger made to try and push him away, but Dusty held fast, pressing back as he refused to be moved.

Dusty had a particular expression that would come over his features, a certain stare, that whether or not he meant it to, always made those captivated by it pay special attention. To listen. And when Ripslinger finally opened his eyes, he found himself caught in its innocuousness. Both planes were still for a time. Dusty could feel and hear Ripslinger trying to steady his breathing. Could feel puffs of breaths from the exhausts along his nose brush across and tickle his plating. But now that he seemed to have his attention, Dusty didn't quite know what to do or to say. So then he simply did the fist thing that popped into his head, and without thinking twice started to whistle, soothingly, the melody to "When You Wish Upon a Star".

Ripslinger had looked mildly taken aback, his brow quirked in confusion for a few moments, but then Dusty watched as in the same instant that surprise and an odd sort of recollection dawned on him, a kind of vibrancy flashed across his dull eyes that hadn't been there before. A flicker of life that faded almost before the orange and white plane had noticed it. Suddenly Ripslinger felt a sharp pain clutching at the heart of him, and cried out softly, but Dusty determinedly stayed right with him, keeping contact and continuing his whistling even as he felt the same squeeze inside of himself.

The Mustang could feel himself start to tremble, the ache starting to intensify and spread, the taste of the black, inky sludge making its way up his throat. He focused on his breathing. Dusty's breathing. He concentrated on his warmth, his scent, and the calming sound of his whistling, and slowly, the bad feelings began to subside, and were gone by the time that the younger plane was finished.

Dusty pulled back from him, but Ripslinger's olive-colored eyes remained locked on the little racer's, still mesmerized from before. He had never really noticed before just how blue they were. As if from the first moment he ever looked up at the skies above, his eyes had captured and kept the color in them. Dusty gently spoke from in front of him for the first time since he had been awoken to his frightened, despairing cries.

"Are you okay?"

Ripslinger didn't answer. Just continued to stare bemusedly, breaths still coming in a little shaky before grimacing, sinking down into the sleeping mat underneath him and releasing one last pained cough, some remnants of black fluid coming up.

"Would you like me to sleep over here with you for the rest of the night?" Dusty asked, his brow pulled in slightly in sympathetic concern, before continuing assuringly, "I really think it would help."

The larger plane said nothing, looking apprehensive at Dusty's proposal, but then, slowly, he leaned up and gave the orange and white plane's nosecone a small lick. And Dusty smiled warmly at the first gesture of affection that Ripslinger had ever given him, possibly had ever given to anyone. He came around behind the checker-marked Mustang and sidled up along his left side, snuggling right in as Ripslinger awkwardly adjusted to where most of their bodies were touching.

Whereas Dusty had fallen asleep after a while, Ripslinger remained awake still, knowing full well that he would never be able to fall back to sleep after such a cruel dream. He was afraid, but gradually, he was loosing his battle. The warmth from before had chilled him, fleetingly, as he felt it enter again, and he felt a sort of squeeze at the center of his self. Only this time was different. Instead of the crushing pain from earlier that nearly took his breath away at its sharpness, it was soft and gentle, almost like a hug. This feeling of compression was surprisingly soothing and reassuring, and allowed his mind to finally shut down long enough for him to forget his fear and drift off to sleep himself.


	15. Table Tennis (Explicit Content)

It was the morning after the most peaceful sleep that Ripslinger had gotten in a long time. Since before he could even remember. He was slowly waking up as the hangar began to grow bright from the morning sun shining through the windows. Olive-colored eyes slowly opened part way, then something orange caught his attention on the peripheral of his vision and they widened slightly as they slid down and saw a little orange and white plane partially underneath him.

The P-51 couldn't exactly recall much of the events during the middle of the night after that horrible dream. Certainly didn't remember ever gathering the smaller plane up against him in his landing gear in his sleep at some point. Ripslinger, carefully, eased himself off of Dusty, scooting over to lay down away from him, almost regretting the loss of warmth and the feeling of contact that had at one time been such a constant in his life until it had all had been so violently ripped away from him. But the little racer had still woken up, his cerulean eyes flitting open.

"Good morning," Dusty yawned, smiling over at the green and black Mustang, who looked apprehensive and even a little abashed, seeming to have trouble meeting his eyes.

The smaller plane got to his landing gear and stretched, yawning again before going to nuzzle the checker-marked Mustang, who shied away from him. He almost looked afraid. Dusty smiled entreatingly, and tried again, going a little slower this time, but got much the same result plus a half-hearted mock-charge with a harsh engine flutter in his face. Dusty sighed, a slightly irked expression coloring his features as he looked up at Ripslinger, who looked rather anxious and just as bewildered as the former crop duster felt. He figured that maybe he should just take the fact that he had actually let him sleep with him for half a night as victory enough, and just give him his space for now. It was quite the bit of progress anyway.

Whatever the P-51 had been dreaming about last night during that nightmare had apparently affected him pretty badly, as he continued to act even more stand-offish and distant the next day. This was beyond just him being robotic, it was pure, out-n-out melancholy. He wouldn't speak, he once again wouldn't eat, spending most of his time off by himself, seeming as if in deep thought, his expression downcast, and everyone had noticed the dramatic and disturbing shift in his behavior. Dusty watched at one point during the day from the door to his hangar as Ripslinger chewed through one his tractor tires, deeply concerned as he gnawed with his jaws squeezing strong and steady, a low, feverish rumbling emanating from the Mustang's engine. He almost looked like he was about to start crying.

"What in the hell happened last night?" Skipper had asked.

"... I don't know, Skipper," Dusty replied softly, deeply worried, but still inclined to keep his distance for now.

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

The orange and white racer had the distinct feeling that this was probably something he shouldn't be touching, plus Ripslinger would come to him eventually anyway. He had to. And so it was that night when Dusty found himself underneath the larger plane, as usual, but subject to a much rougher time of it this session around. The Mustang's thrusting was hard but irregular, spending more time pulling Dusty back into him as if just wanting to be as close and a part of him as he possibly could, but it was never enough. The little plane bit and gnawed holes in the sleeping mat, trying to muffle the screams ripping up from this throat, sure at that ever-familiar, burning ache throughout his insides and the entire rear half of him that something had to be tearing. Ripslinger's feelings of upset were evident as he groaned above the younger plane, letting out grunting pants as he drove himself in deeper and deeper in desperation, crushing himself further down into Dusty's body. And all the while, feelings of protest and pleading from that odd presence, intermingled to where it was hard to tell from which party they were coming from, were so strong and loud that even Ripslinger distantly thought that he could almost discern words.

 _"It's not right... Not right..."_

[[END OF EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

XXxx

Dusty found himself standing on the same grounds as before, only things were less beautiful now as the place had seemed to have taken on a rather bleak mood. Dark clouds dimmed the atmosphere, making everything look cold, withered, and gray. Nothing moved. Everything was eerily still despite a lazy breeze swirling through the air. As Dusty looked around at the dreary surroundings, he noticed something different. The statue of the P-51 was standing where it was supposed to be as it hadn't in the first dream, etchings in the brass denoting familiar checker markings. The orange and white racer moved to go get a closer look, having always wanted to see it in person, but was stopped by the sound of a soft rustling and clinking. He went around to the other side of the garden holding the statue, where he thought the noise had come from, and then stopped dead, recoiling in shock at what he saw.

It was the young P-51 from before, bound and bolted to the ground by so many lengths of chain. Dusty stared in incredulous sympathy. It was obvious by the scarring around his wings, tail, and landing gear that he had struggled a great deal for a good while, but the wounds were old as if he'd eventually given up long ago, and he'd apparently cried so hard and for so long that his tears had stained and cut into the paint down his fuselage.

The little blue and red Mustang seemed to be almost comatose, having not moved since Dusty had found him, not even opening his troubled eyes as he was sagged down into his landing gear when the former-crop duster came closer. He looked down at the young plane, sadness and pity taken over his features, wanting to cry at the suffering he must have undergone, thinking who would do such a thing to a child? He nuzzled the little one, trying to offer some comfort. Only when Dusty started to lick his face did he slowly open his eyes, which were nothing but dull, sorrowful windows of trauma and despair as he looked up at him. And the orange and white racer's own eyes widened in horrified revelation, sucking in a sharp, quiet gasp as his fluids froze right in their lines as he now recognized who this plane was.

 _Oh my god..._ What was this? What did this _mean_? Overcome and forgetting that he was in a dream, Dusty began biting and tugging at the chains that wrapped around all over the young P-51's frame. The little plane remained motionless, not moving to start up struggling or to try and help break himself free, all fight and hope having gone from him long ago.

 _**"They won't break..."**_

Dusty paused, turning away from the bound young plane, looking for the cold, echoing voice that just spoke as a bad chill shuddered over his frame. The air suddenly rippled and split, and then darkness flowed out. The enormous mass of a long, thin frame rolled heavily but smoothly on its landing gear across the grass, moving closer, ever so slowly, as if to convey that it meant no harm. It stopped several feet away, and Dusty found himself staring up in terror into the creature's rich, red eyes.

Orange-red pinstripes clashed so violently on the demon's flat, blackest black skin that they appeared to almost glow. It's very presence seemed to suck all what light there was in the environment away, radiating nothing but coldness and oblivion in spite of the constant hot, withering hissing and rattling of its engines.

 _ **"They won't break that way... ,"**_ the thing spoke again, it's voice barely there, insubstantial as wind through a cave, and yet Dusty could still hear him clear as a bell.

"Who are you?" Dusty finally got out, breathless with fear.

For a brief instant everything was still, and then it moved again, slowly, toward the two much, much smaller planes. Dusty reversed back involuntarily, away from the beast, feeling utterly weak and tiny. Dusty dropped down in his landing gear, lowering his nose in submission. Then the darkness leaned down on its landing gear and reached out for him. The feather-light touch of a needle point under his jaw made his engine want to seize and he rose back up at the prompt; or rather, it drew him upward without effort. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak. This devil could tear him in two if it so desired, if not almost swallow him whole. It turned the orange and white plane's face to the side as if inspecting him and then let him go, turning it's piercing, yet dispassionate gaze to the chained Mustang, who had become unresponsive again. At this Dusty seem to find some of his courage, and backed up closer to the young plane as the dark one approached further, bristling as his control surfaces raised up in an effort to make himself look bigger, feeling ridiculous.

"What do you want?" he demanded. "Did _you_ do this?"

The monster's presence was insidious; a creeping, oily taint that yet gave no hints of its intentions, whether good or bad, and made the tiny racer desperately want to flee. It simply stared, barely there traces of somber amusement in its cold features at Dusty's display before it replied.

 _ **"The only one who could have broken those chains is the one that put them there..."**_ the rattling and hissing in its engines thrummed up stronger before subsiding as it continued, _**"It's too late..."**_

Dusty's face fell in sadness at what the black creature meant, turning a little to look back at the inert P-51, then he steeled himself before looking back up at it.

"You're wrong," he said to the shadow, his voice bravely defiant despite how hard it was to steady it, and the red narrowed, but there was a tinge of sadness to them as it gazed down upon Dusty, the environment starting to melt away along with his slumber as he slowly woke up.

XXxx

He'd woken up alone that morning and back in his own bed, his frame aching and feeling more sore than he'd been almost since the whole thing had started. He gingerly rose from the sleeping mat, a tetter of worry piercing through the grogginess as he went to go look for Ripslinger. He wasn't anywhere around just outside, and he wasn't at the garage. Dusty trekked over to Propwash Junction's little airport and was treated to quite the surprising sight. As he neared the end of the runway, where Skipper's hangar was, there he was.

There they both were, Corsair and Mustang, sitting together. Dusty had never seen them that close together unless they were fighting. They weren't arguing, there wasn't even any tenseness in their frames as they sat with each other, silent as they both watched and listened to the town slowly waking up. _Huh._ Dusty didn't approach them, instead leaving them to themselves.

The day was more positive than the last. Ripslinger actually ate something, and was speaking, although only really when spoken to. There remained, however, a despondent air to him as he mostly kept to himself, not being a part of the group but at least wanting to keep them within sight as he went between observing them and dozing, his expression remaining troubled.

His attention was piqued as he watched in thoughtful consideration as Dusty and Skipper were rolling and tussling over the grass. The sight of such a small airplane sparring with another over twice his size and several times his weight was entertaining. It was a joke, really. Dusty would dart around the old Corsair, jumping on him and biting uselessly on Skipper's armor whenever the older plane would "miss" fending him off, then casually rebuff his attacks with little effort. The little racer's engine growling in response to the deeper, more substantial but playful rumbling of the larger plane's were so mismatched it was actually quite cute.

Then Skipper let Dusty win, pretending to collapse and allowing the former crop duster to jump up again, his little wheels against his side as he landed more nipping bites over his fuselage. Ripslinger looked on as Dusty seemed to grow concerned with how hard Skipper had been breathing, and went around to the front of him to see if he was okay. Then the old war plane suddenly sprang up from the ground with a forceful rev of his engine, Dusty rearing back on his tail gear and lifting off his front landing gear a bit in gleeful surprise. The game ended when the two went nose to nose for a moment, scraping their propeller blades against one another as they tipped their noses up and then pulled back, staring into each other's eyes. Dusty moved forward again, going up into the crook of the fore of Skipper's wing where it joined his body and they nuzzled cheek-to-cheek, their Souls blissfully happy and in perfect order with each other.

A smile passed fleetingly across Ripslinger's face, but then a sudden desperate, sorrowful ache throbbed up from the heart of him, his expression melting back into weariness as he slowly laid down fully, his eyes not leaving the two Bonded Companions. The sun was beginning to set as the P-51 pondered over his predicament that had been gradually growing in intensity and had come to a fever pitch two nights ago since he'd had that awful nightmare.

It was beyond anything he'd ever been able to experience at this point in his life. This was beyond trauma, hatred, friendship, or adoration. This was extra and foreign after having been left untouched and unused for so long. This was an addiction that was starting to encompass more than the quelling of constant, panicked feelings of pain and torment that fluttered deep within his being. More than any sort of sexual gratification.

And he wanted it daily. He wanted Dusty's voice daily. He wanted his company daily. He wanted him to speak to him about life, morals, and the world, daily. He wanted to know what he believed in. He wanted to listen to everything. He wanted Dusty to prepare him for dreams and good things. He wanted to protect him. To shield him from the cruel horrors that reality could deal and prevent Dusty from becoming what he himself was now.

And because of all this, he wanted out. Ripslinger desired to not form any emotional ties with anyone, for it is something that he had already resigned himself as being incapable of, and in addition something that they are unprepared for. And he had never been more afraid than he was now.

But this cold, grudging, cruel, arrogant person so deeply rooted into him... is not him. He knew it to be so. Deep down he knew, but whatever he was before had been pushed down so far and for so long that it was beyond his ability to try to recall or retrieve it. Besides, how else was he to protect himself from further anguish and devastation that he'd already had to endure? Or those around him for that matter? This was why he would forever ponder over and over what it is that this little plane does to protect his own state of self while still being honest about who he is.

No. He couldn't have this. He wasn't capable of having it after all. Once all of this was over and he was well again and back in the solitude and security of his own home at the top of RPX headquarters, perhaps he would delve into it a little more. Until then, he would try to pull himself together and fortify himself to become immune to Dusty. He shut his eyes, and attempted to conjure peace in silence.

Dusty meanwhile, his game with Skipper over, watched as the Corsair went moseying back to his hangar. The orange and white plane then turned to look back over at Ripslinger, who he had noticed had been watching their sparring match the entire time. He was laying down now, facing somewhat away from the field, his eyes open part-way with a sort of bitter sadness on his features. Dusty came to a stop just a few feet away from the Mustang, who looked up, raising the front of his body and turning toward the smaller plane. Dusty, smiling, then dipped his nose, bringing it back up quickly in a gesture meant to beckon the checker-marked racer to come with him, who looked back at him with a confused expression. The little racer then bowed down on his front landing gear, mouth opening in another encouraging smile, but when Ripslinger continued to be hesitant, he took his left wing in his mouth, gently pulling on it until the larger plane eventually stood up and began to follow him out onto the field.

They eventually came to a stop, Dusty bowing down again before darting forward and rearing up, landing against his left side for an instant before pushing off and scooting away again. Ripslinger didn't move, only just stood there looking utterly bewildered. Dusty came back around, this time going for his other side, and Ripslinger quickly turned to face him, stiff on his landing gear in apprehension. He flinched when the smaller plane feigned another charge, but then nearly went into an involuntary bow at the same time as Dusty. Then Dusty veered off, making a circle around the green and black plane's body while he turned to keep a nervous bead on his movements, and when he shot back out in front of him, Ripslinger had actually chased him a little ways before skidding to a stop as Dusty suddenly wheeled back around to face him, bowing again. The P-51 was still stiff and unsure in his movements as Dusty caught him in a stare then. That same stare that had first captivated him two nights ago, clearly reading, "Come on... You can do it."

 _You know how to do this_ , Dusty thought, holding the older plane in that auspicious gaze of his. _I_ _ **know**_ _you do. You're_ _ **not**_ _lost. It's still in there somewhere._

He reared up a little off his front landing gear, and Ripslinger reared up to meet him before they both sank back down again. Almost imperceptibly, he seemed to be loosening up. When Dusty tilted down into a bow again, Ripslinger turned as if to flee, but stopped, slightly bowed into his own landing gear as he watched the orange and white plane keenly. Then Dusty reared up again and the two planes tussled for a bit before he gave chase as Ripslinger went wheeling away. The chase went down and back aways across the field in the evening twilight before they lifted up off their landing gear into the crooks of the fore of their wings, biting and snapping playfully at each other before lowering back down.

They paused, both planes panting slightly as they faced one another. The stars were beginning to come out in the sky. Dusty was delighted at the expression of energized amusement on the Mustang's face. Not a full smile, but still positive and a good sign nonetheless. It filled the little plane with hope. He could have jumped up and licked and nuzzled him if he knew it wouldn't make Ripslinger uncomfortable and ruin the moment. So Dusty simply smiled up at him, the checker-marked racer looking back with a curious expression. He looked down then, contemplating something before moving off for his usual stargazing spot on the cliffs. Dusty let him go, staring after him for a bit before turning and heading back to his hangar.

XXxx

It was getting late. Ripslinger had yet to return. Dusty lay awake on his sleeping mat, the lights not yet turned out, pondering the day and all the other things that have happened since Ripslinger had been set free among them. His alternating aggressive and despondent behavior. His confused responses toward most forms of gestures and behaviors between aircraft. The dream that he himself had last night. How he was able to get Ripslinger to spar with him, for what felt almost like the Mustang had never done such a thing in his whole life. But still. That spectral construct in the dream had to be wrong.

The little plane almost hadn't noticed Ripslinger making his entrance back into the hangar, at least not until he was looming over him. Dusty looked up questioningly, but was checked, his eyes widening and his mouth opening slightly at the look on Ripslinger's face. It was the most intense, sultry thing that Dusty had ever seen, and the checker-marked P-51's olive-colored eyes were darkened down as he licked his chops, lavender-gray tongue sweeping across sharp teeth at the smaller plane's wide-eyed intrigue and soft, shaking exhale. He leaned down, Dusty partially closing his eye as the green and black plane gave him a slow, gentle lick up the left side of his face, a blush beginning to creep onto former crop duster's features.

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

"Ripslinger..." he murmured as the larger plane moved forward and gave him another lick further down his fuselage, saliva glistened tongue leaving viscous, slightly sticky trails.

Ripslinger pressed the side of his nose into his flank for a moment, mindful of his propellers before coming around and sidling up behind Dusty, who immediately hunkered down almost instinctively, his body tense as his wheels gripped the mattress underneath him, eyes shut tight. The Mustang paused, something like remorse flitting across his face for an instant before he continued. He scraped his nose cone over Dusty's ventral access panel, eliciting a soft gasp and a slight raise in his tail where he was able to get under and deal another torturous lick to the quivering plates. The younger male moaned, the plates of his panel separating and sliding back, giving Ripslinger access to him at his leisure. Dusty hummed and panted heavily as the P-51 continued to lap at him, tongue slipping ever so slightly into the folds of his slit tantalizingly here and there until the orange and white plane's arousal started dripping in earnest. Ripslinger stopped, lifting away as he licked his lips of residual fluids, satisfied at the response he was getting and feeling unbearably tight down toward his tail now.

Dusty panted hard, breathless and completely taken aback by this sudden, jarring change in behavior. Ripslinger mounted him then, hunkering down into him and squeezing the little plane's frame gently, giving it a nuzzle as a low rumble bubbled up from his engine. Dusty heard a snap and a scraping, then felt the tapered tip of the green and black racer's throbbing phallus against his entrance. Slowly, he began pushing himself in, sliding in easily, a hiss from his engine mingling in with the growling as it grew in intensity. He was being so gentle, so tender! Who even knew that a plane such as Ripslinger even had any of that in him? And yet he continued to make the wrong noises, the harsh, malignant sounds emanating from the big plane's engine throwing Dusty off as it always did in these situations. But then the little racer thought, when had he ever heard Ripslinger make a happy-sounding noise? Was he incapable? Did he not know how, just like he had forgotten how to play? The thought hit Dusty in a very bad way in the type of sadness and despair it insinuated, and in spite of himself let out a quiet sob and as a few tears escaped and rolled down his front.

This did not escape Ripslinger's attention, and he paused for a moment before moving to withdraw himself, albeit reluctantly. Dusty realized what was happening and he quickly tried to correct the misunderstanding, flicking his tail up against the P-51, who got the message and went back to his agonizingly slow entrance, until he was almost fully hilted. He paused again, waiting, until suddenly he thrust the rest of himself inside the smaller plane, causing him to suck in a sharp gasp. He pulled out a ways, then plunged back in again, and this time Dusty let out an exhaling cry of pleasure.

After those couple of testing thrusts, Ripslinger settled himself into a steady rhythm to start them off. Dusty's gasping whimpers along with his cock being massaged by his silky interior weren't long in causing a steady stream of precum to start to leak out, the combined fluids of both planes making sliding in and out of the orange and white plane just that much easier.

"God, yes..." the mustang groaned out a whisper, his mind beginning to swim so much that thinking straight was soon going to be a problem.

Ripslnger's thrusts slowly began to grow much harder than they had been after the initial penetration. Lewd sounds began to fill the air. The checker-marked plane's grunts and growls, the smaller racer's crying pants and moans at the juicy stabs into his body, and whatever soft curses the former had to say under his breath. The more often than not forced link between their cores during past activities was wide open now, both plane's Souls seeming to rejoice, such feelings of almost celebratory jubilation and gratifying relief so strong that it added to their rapture. And Ripslinger was beginning to lose control.

His fluid's pumping quickened. Dusty could feel that much through the pulsating dick wedged inside of him; could feel every throb, every twitch within his tender walls. Ripslinger's body had become very tense, eyes closed in concentration. He wanted to bite, chew, to rend something in response to the ironic stress that all these good feelings that he was just so unaccustomed to were causing him. He couldn't ruin this. Not this time. As distressing as they were, he didn't want the rediscovered feelings to stop. He wanted to be stressed. He _wanted_ to re-adapt to them.

Without warning, he suddenly felt Dusty's frame jerk violently underneath him, and an even more livelier noise erupted from the little plane, almost a wail. His abrupt cry was enough to disrupt the green and black plane's thoughts and frantic pacing. He stalled, but didn't stop as he tried to figure out and recreate what caused that response. At first he had thought that Dusty had somehow reached his peak first when he had been distracted a moment ago, but since the sheets and cushions underneath them weren't drenched, it had to be something else. He felt himself slipping from the sleeping mat and adjusted accordingly, and when he did he got the same response and then some.

"Aah! Ooh, fuck, Rip!" Dusty cried out in ecstasy, and the realization made Ripslinger flash those sharp rear teeth in an all-knowing grin followed by a foreboding pause in his thrusting.

He adjusted his angle again, leaning in, and then unleashed hell directly on the spot that had caused such a stir a moment ago. It didn't take him long to work back up to the pace he was at before, and reach the point where breathing through his intake was more of a liability than he needed. The P-51 opened his mouth and licked his chops to find some of Dusty's fluids still there from earlier. Ripslinger's hot, humid, lustful pants joined the rest of the sounds in the hangar soon after, along with a few more flavorful words at just what he was feeling on his end.

Dusty was practically screaming as the P-51 held nothing back now, finding his weakness and pounding into it with no regrets. The orange and white plane was lifting his tail to meet his thrusts, huffing and moaning loudly. He couldn't think, all he could do was feel; and the pleasure was so immense that it was almost shameful. He didn't last much longer after that. Dusty's frame trembled nearly to the point of convulsions until like a snap he was subject to such euphoria that he had never experienced as yet in his young life, his mind clouded and eyes glazed over with lust as they rolled back.

The inevitable for Ripslinger happened shortly after, the smaller plane's walls clamping around him almost painfully to where all he could think to do was shove his entire length into him one last time before he exploded. His face contorted, eyes shut tight, he let loose an almighty roar from his engine as he shot his load deep into the former crop duster, white smoke starting to pour from the many exhausts lining either side of his nose as his mouth opened wide. Before he knew it, Dusty could feel himself being filled to the brim with the other's hot, thick cum, oozing around the shaft embedded in him, overflowing and flushing his own seed out with it. Ripslinger took in a few more shaking breaths before that rubbery sensation in his landing gear started to set in. It took all his willpower to hold himself up; he didn't want to pull out just yet.

He hunkered down into Dusty, clinging to him, shivering and almost in shock as all the intense sensations and feelings began to ebb away, his entire frame boiling to the touch. He made a sound almost like a muttered whimper of something as he began to calm down. The connection stayed open with their prolonged contact, instead of suddenly severing itself upon release like it usually did. Dusty arched up into him, trying to offer what comfort he could while still being unable to speak from light-headed delirium, trying to steady his breathing and make the dark corners in his vision go away.

Later, the two planes lay quite close to one another on Ripslinger's sleeping mat, Dusty's having been completely soaked. They were still just riding out the last of the residual euphoria from their exertions. The Mustang was strangely calm right now. It was a rare sight. Ripslinger was hardly ever just calm, but right now he could have made Buddha himself look stiff as a board. Dusty leaned into the larger plane, and he let him. A scream of discovery and the unknown had been fast coming up the horizon and apparently had blind-sided them both, but now here they sat, different trains of thought running through either's heads, but the general question being the same; what now?


	16. Song of the Soul

Tom sat with one leg dangling off his bed toward the back of Dottie's hangar as he polished one of the many musical instruments in his repertoire, his Mellophone. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked, but then his teal eyes looked up at the shadow of a large, dark shape beginning to make its way past front of the open doors of the hangar.

It was Ripslinger. Tom only sat, captivated at the P-51's huge mass, thin as he was at the time and back-lit by the late-morning sun, as he moved smoothly along in a movement that belied his form, making no acknowledgment of the human. Tom wasn't used to aircraft, and Ripslinger was like nothing he'd ever seen. The few aircraft he'd been around since arriving on the Vivens machina's side of the sky were smaller; little farm and touring planes. By contrast, Ripslinger was just so much different, almost exotic even. And Tom was transfixed, as a human who's stumbled across some elegant, mythical beast might be. He watched as the Mustang's tail disappeared past the other side of the door frame, and quietly set his Mellophone down and went to follow him, grabbing a bottle of water from his backpack he used for storing his music.

Tom stepped outside to find that Ripslinger was suddenly nowhere in sight. He looked around, a little surprised, before smiling slightly. _Hide and seek, eh? This shouldn't be too difficult,_ he thought before jogging around the town. The Sun was directly overhead soon enough, and sweat dripped from the human's' forehead as he passed other airplanes and forklifts, raising a hand in acknowledgment. Despite the unrelenting summer heat, the countryside was pulchritudinous in its expanse. Great green belts of corn stretched for kilometers around, disappearing into the horizon if it weren't for the mountainous backdrop.

After a good ten minutes of searching however, Tom scratched his head in slight confusion. How can something, er, someone, that big disappear like that? And so quietly, too? Tom continued in the direction he saw the big plane heading, intent on finding where he had got to. But as ten minutes became twenty, and twenty became thirty, he sighed in small defeat, finally deciding to return to Dottie's hangar as he rounded the corner of a hangar. Upon rounding that very corner, however, his head collided with something painfully solid, creating a slightly visible dent in the human's forehead.

Ripslinger had just laid down, and they seemed to startle one another as Tom just barely stifled a quick gasp where the P-51 had looked up at him sharply with a soft snort from his exhausts. There was a rather tense moment as human and plane simply stared at one another before Ripslinger eventually got back up and moved off, Tom's head tilting back further and further as the racer rose, but he didn't budge. His expression was slightly irked but also somewhat inquisitive as he continued to stare at the little human as he passed him by before setting his olive-colored eyes ahead of him. Tom stayed where he was, watching the Mustang stalk off for more private resting places when a familiar female voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Hey."

Tom craned his neck to see the point of origin of the sound. It was Clarice, who had apparently been watching the whole, awkward thing. He about-faced on his heels to turn to look at her.

"Hey, Clarice," he said, nodding his head in acknowledgment.

"He keeps you on your toes, huh?" she asked, giving a good-natured smile.

"Yeah."

Both humans turned back to look at Ripslinger moving aimlessly among the hangars, stopping now and then to examine with veiled curiosity some lawn decoration or other.

"You like planes?"

"Yeah," Tom answered with more of an edge to his voice than he really meant to in a sort of "isn't it obvious?" tone, "I like _him_ ," he said, gesturing with his head toward the racer.

"Well, he can be kind of temperamental, even with other planes, so you be careful around him," Clarice cautioned, watching Ripslinger as he finally found a grassy spot under a tree and laid down once more, before continuing, thoughtfully, "He seems to find you pretty interesting though."

"He does?" Tom asked, sounding a bit distant as his eyes were still on the checker-marked P-51, but still intrigued.

"Yeah. Can't you see?"

Tom turned back toward her. "Can't I see what?" he repeated, looking slightly confused.

"You'll see eventually," Clarice answered cryptically, with a slightly mischievous smile upon her features.

Tom stared after her as she said no more, losing himself in his constant internal monologue. " _You'll see eventually"_ , Tom thought, slightly scoffing as he stepped off towards Dottie's hangar. _Whatever that means._

That same day, Dusty returned to town, just recently having slipped away real quick for a short tournament. Almost the whole town was collected on the runway to do their usual thing of greeting him, praising him and telling him how well he did.

Tom however, wasn't as fashionably late as he usually was. In fact he was very near to being _late_ late. Sprinting to the Fill 'n' Fly to make sure to catch Dusty in time, he tripped in a crack in the road, his aviators flying off his head as he ate asphalt. Blood spilled from his nose like a river as he picked himself up and quickly dusted himself off, continuing in the direction of the Fill 'n' Fly, apparently not learning his lesson as he ran again at full bore.

Sulking silently in Dusty's hangar was Ripslinger, either oblivious or simply not caring at all the fanfare of Dusty's return. He had been watching nonchalantly as Tom bolted across town. Who knew that humans could move so fast despite looking like a rather clumsy, ungraceful lot? Nose and eyes following the human's path as he ran, he gave a hardly noticeable start when he totally bit it into the pavement right in front of where he was. There it is. Then his expression grew baffled at Tom's apparent audacity to just get right back up and continue on in the manner that got him into trouble in the first place. Well… the kid had tenacity, he'd give him that.

XXxx

Walking, although more like roll stepping, back to Dottie's hangar, Tom had a myriad of time to think now that he was here. His hyperactive brain had thoughts seemingly float in and disappear at times, but they were more truncated than anything. Sometimes, an interesting idea for a song or a marching show would float by and he'd latch onto it, writing down his ideas for the said topic.

Right now though, there was only one thought on his mind: Ripslinger. He was a weird plane. There was just something about him that he couldn't pin down. To Tom, it seemed that everyone else around here was fairly predictable, but with Ripslinger, he felt as if he was facing a robot in a game of chess. Cold, faceless, giving no such indication of what his next move was going to be. Of course, robots tended to follow strict patterns. Ripslinger did not. And he knew next to nothing about him but his celebrity. While he did carry that air of spoiled disdain, his demeanor also spoke of a certain indolence, and even melancholy, that Tom didn't understand.

Lost in thought, the human nearly walked right into Dusty, who was conversing with Skipper outside of the Fill 'n' Fly, about seemingly the most random things, then he suddenly shouted a whisper to the old Corsair when he noticed the little human was at the tip of his nose, looking up at him expectantly.

"Oh, hey Tom! What's up?"

"Entropy," Tom responded without missing a beat.

Confused looks from the crop duster-turned-racer and the warbird ensued.

"Oh… kay… Oh yeah! I almost forgot!" Dusty responded tangentially, whirling around to grab something behind him, while Skipper just looked on with a slight smile. Turning back around, Dusty had a small box gently gripped in his teeth. "Here you go!" he said before tossing it to the human in question.

Expression level, Tom caught it with one hand and opened it quickly. Inside was what seemed to be like a roll of money. A big roll of money. $25,000 dollars, to be exact. Tom nearly keeled over dead. The way Dusty had thrown it at him it might have been as insignificant as a stick of gum.

"What is this?"

"Well, isn't it pretty obvious? It's a bo-"

"No, no, I know what it is," Tom said, cutting off the crop duster, "but why?"

The human had actually dropped the box at some point, too shocked to remember exactly when. He held his head in his hands, not knowing to react or how the hell to accept this. And then that's when the shouting match began.

"Tell me Ripslinger got one, too," Tom said quickly, his voice level but his expression accusatory.

"What do you mean?" Dusty responded.

"Tell me everyone else got a box, too," now he was starting to sound desperate in disbelief.

"Well, I haven't…"

"Give this box to Ripslinger," Tom said, thrusting the box at Dusty's nose.

"Why?"

And that was about all the human was able to stand anymore.

"Why? Why?!" Tom responded, starting to shout. "We've barely even known each other for like week! What the hell have I done to deserve this?!" He concluded bitterly before turning around and hastily removing himself before he got any more upset than he already was.

Dusty was shocked at the human's reaction, and Skipper nearly went to follow him, but Dusty stopped him with his wing.

"Don't worry, Skip, I'll handle it."

"You're still dealing with the last thing you 'handled'," Skipper jabbed.

"Pshh. This is a totally different situation," Dusty responded laconically, before rolling off after Tom and picking up the crumpled box.

Tom didn't want that money. He had always had a difficult time taking anything from anyone, least of all money, which Dusty had just found out, being a person of much self-action. And it had only worsened with his forced independence at such a young age before he'd been truly ready for it. Besides, what was he to him? He didn't know him from a can of paint. Sure, he knew about Dusty, but he didn't know him. Just then, the aforementioned racer wooshed past him, turning sharply to face the human and block his path.

"¿Qué te quieres, güey?" ["What do you want, fool?"], Tom spat in Spanish.

Tom had a habit where he would usually resort to other languages when he was angry, but Dusty was learning this human's ways faster than Tom was obviously learning his, and wasn't fazed in the slightest as he held the box of money in his mouth and rolled up to Tom. Crouching down in his landing gear to put his eyes level to the steely eyes of the human's, he put the box down, and spoke.

"Thomas, I want you to know something…" _Money has no value to me_ , is what the orange and white plane almost said, but he was worried that the human might again respond negatively to that, so he corrected himself before continuing, "I have more money than I know what to do with."

"Your point?" Tom said, raising his eyebrow; he already knew where he was trying to go with this, but he was curious as to how the airplane would get there.

"My point is, I could probably buy the entire world if I wanted to. But I don't _want_ the world," he stressed. "All I want is to be surrounded by the people I love, and to see them be happy. My friends _are_ my whole world. Besides, accidents happen. I could die anytime I go up to race. Then what good is it really? It's not like I can take it with me."

 _Well, you certainly have better things to do with it than waste it on me_ , Tom thought to himself sorely. But he knew better than to sass the former-crop duster, even though he didn't want the money.

"So you give money to your friends so you can keep them as friends, or because you think they need it more than you?"

Dusty laughed at this. "Well, to be honest probably a bit of both. But I don't see that as a bad thing. I mean, I would never have made it through this world without any of them. They all make my life so much better."

"And how do _I_ make your life better?" Tom said, genuinely confused.

"You give me something to think about. And to look up to." And the human was greatly taken aback by this. "You've lost everything," Dusty empathized, and Tom's surprised expression darkened down, looking pensive in muted sorrow. "I don't think even I would be able to keep on going if I'd lost so much."

Tom was a little speechless. Wow, that much of an effect? But then again he'd been living the way he had for long enough now. It wasn't unusual to him anymore. But still… Dusty picked the packet of money back up, raising it toward Tom entreatingly. The human smiled and took it. _Good enough_ , Tom thought before extending his hand, and then realizing that planes didn't have hands. _Oh boy, here we go._

"Oh. Umm, what constitutes as a handshake in airplane terms?"

Tom froze then, as Dusty immediately leaned down and in, smiling as he ever-so-gently touched the tip of his nose cone to the human's nose. Tom blushed slightly. Apparently aircraft had no sense of personal space. But then an odd pressure pulsed through his being at the proximity. It was a feeling that shook him to his bones, and blurred his vision, but was then gone just as fast as it came on as the plane drew away.

"T-Thank you," Tom said, before bowing to the plane. He had no idea why he did that. He just suddenly felt compelled to for some reason.

"Haha! No problem! Welcome to the family!" Dusty responded, with the biggest smile on his face.

And Tom was stunned. _Family._ This plane considered him part of his mis-matched, weird, _wonderful_ family. The human was frozen in indecisiveness at how to properly respond, but then thought, _to hell with it_ , and threw his arms around the racer's nose, hugging him tight, his face showing the strain of trying not to cry. Dusty's engine gave a soft flutter as he wiggled a bit, as if to bury himself further into the human's embrace. Tom composed himself, but didn't yet let go.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome, Tom," Dusty said as they pulled away from each other. Tom gave him a few pats on the nose before Dusty moved to return to Skipper, "Spend it well!" he called behind him.

"Well, that went well," Skipper remarked as Dusty returned to his side.

"What can I say? Just call me the Human Whisperer!" Dusty said with a dorky grin.

"Hah. 'Whisperer'," Skipper jested sardonically, at which Dusty's landing gear stiffened and he turned and looked at him with an irked but amused expression. The old guy was just in rare form today.

"Do you really wanna start?" Dusty asked, still smiling but getting dangerously close to his mischievous, "this means war" face.

"Oh, no, no…" Skipper replied, still sounding condescending despite the warning of trouble.

"'Cause I'll go right now if you wanna start."

"No, no, no…"

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

They taxied in silence for a few moments, then Skipper said softly, "Good boy, Dusty." and then the smaller plane flashed him that famous thousand-watt smile of his.

Meanwhile, Tom was walking down the road back to Dottie's hangar, tossing the box of money from hand to hand. _Okay first things first, I'm getting a Marimba. A five octave one, along with some sticks. Some nice ones…_

XXxx

Meanwhile, Ripslinger had been making his usual, bored, uninterested rounds around the neighborhood when he thought he could hear some sort of music coming from the general direction of Dottie's hangar. Only it wasn't the gentle, slow melodies of the Baby Grand of hers that he was used to, often sitting near or behind the hangar and dozing quite peacefully as it permeated softly through the walls. It definitely wasn't the sounds of Tom's horns and drums. This was an instrument that he wasn't altogether familiar with. It had a warm, round feel to it, the sound, and Ripslinger instantly started listening. He could hear the near-expert level of musicality put into the piece as it was played, the rubato of tempo just enough not to be boring, but not too much as to be crazy and chaotic.

Curiously, he followed it, stopping every now and then to listen intently whenever a certain motif piqued his interest. He reached the outside of Dottie's hangar, poked his nose around the doorframe, and then his mouth dropped open slightly in realization at what he saw. He rolled further into the hangar, and then sat back into his tail gear and silently watched.

Tom, oblivious to the P-51 entering the hangar, continued to play, eyes often closed as he got a feel for the music. This was one of his absolute favorite pieces to play; he played several times during his short high school career, and even played it as his Marimba solo for Sophomore year. But right here, right now, in this hangar, with this Marimba, and with these sticks, the song had never sounded better. The acoustics and blend of sound were perfect for this song, and he could never have even _hoped_ that it would sound better that this.

Glancing over though, he caught sight of something unexpected. Ripslinger. Letting his brain go on autopilot, Tom studied the airplane with his peripheral vision. He was just sitting there. He didn't move, didn't speak, and disturbingly didn't blink. Just fixed him with this intent stare. It was like playing for a museum prop. Despite any awkwardness there might have been, Tom never faltered once, and having this particular plane's full attention on you was never exactly pleasant.

Ripslinger, for his part, was actually focused on the human's hands. He was nothing short of mesmerized, the same way a human might be fascinated and perhaps even disturbed by a chameleon snatching an insect with its tongue, or a snake still having the ability to swim or climb a tree with no limbs at all. At this point the music was just a plus. But then Tom suddenly paused.

"Do you want to try?" he asked, holding up each of the mallets in a gesture towards Ripslinger.

And after giving the tiniest start, the P-51 scoffed with a snort from his exhausts to cover himself and went skulking out of the hangar, leaving Tom blinking behind him. But then the next day, he was back watching Tom play again. And for the next few days he kept coming back whenever he knew Tom was practicing, silent and still like always as he watched the human play. It was a bit awkward at first for Tom, who thought it a bit odd that Ripslinger would take time out of his busy schedule of loafing, staring at nothing, and yawning to come and watch him mess around on the Marimba. But with an audience to impress, so to speak, it quickly became less so.

Ripslinger was obviously captivated, watching the movements of his hands flow like water, and yet, at points it looked very jagged, almost as if he was stuttering. But he still never faltered. It was perfect in its rhythm, even if at times it was a discombobulated mess. But what really impressed Ripslinger is how fast Tom could change from one mallet type to the other. A large stick bag hanging on the Marimba contained all the mallets that Tom had bought, and the Mustang found it mesmerizing that he could stop, put those mallets away, and then grab a new pair, all in an instant. Not only that, but when he did it, it looked perfectly fluid, no interruptions speed or flow to his movements or the music.

It was on the 6th day of this strange, unspoken ritual, that Ripslinger didn't hear the Marimba, but instead heard a completely different sound: one of singing. Sure enough, it was coming from the same location of Dottie's hangar, but there was something a bit odd, and Ripslinger couldn't quite place it. Apprehensively, green and black plane moved closer to the hangar, and found that the human was indeed the one singing. As Ripslinger entered the hangar, he could make out the words that the human was saying:

…Standing above the crowd,  
He had a voice that was strong and loud and I  
Swallowed his facade 'cause I'm so  
Eager to identify with  
Someone above the ground,  
Someone who seemed to feel the same,  
Someone prepared to lead the way, and  
Someone who would die for me.

If Ripslinger said that he wasn't moved by the words, he'd be lying. It reminded him of himself a little bit; he'd almost forgotten.

"You have a beautiful voice," he said, before he could catch himself.

Tom, turning around as if he knew Ripslinger was there, said, "Thanks. Seriously, you are the first person to tell me that veraciously."

Realizing what he said, the big plane snorted again as if to keep his integrity and said, "Don't mention it." Little did he know that Tom managed to see right through the bluff, and smiled slightly in response. "I didn't know humans sang," he then said with genuine realization.

"Of course we sing. _You_ sing," he said, indicating all Vivens machina, the P-51's emphasis on it's significance going over the human's head.  
Ripslinger scoffed softly, a bitter expression darkening his features again.

"Not me."

"Why not?" Tom asked.

"I…" the P-51 hesitated. "I can't…"

But the human again took his apprehension for bashfulness.

"Sure you can; we're the only ones in here."

"I just can't, okay!" Ripslinger snapped, suddenly becoming upset in his self-consciousness, and Tom wisely pressed no further, but continued to sing himself.

And the Mustang could not help but be intrigued. The boy really did have a rather nice singing voice. He waited, curious to see what sort of signature a human might carry, but felt nothing. Was it because he was broken? No, that couldn't be. Dusty sang all the time, and Skipper also sang when he thought no one was around, and Ripslinger had been able to sense them better and better lately. Perhaps humans were different. Maybe they didn't even possess such things. But that couldn't be. Why should singing and music obviously carry some importance to this creature's culture otherwise?

Then Ripslinger was compelled to try to sing with the human. Maybe that was it. He started up, and surprised himself with how strong and level his voice was, but he lost it quickly and his voice faltered and dropped off. But Tom continued to sing, and he felt encouraged. He tried again, forcing himself through his Soul's taxed sputtering and protest, and miraculously, his voice leveled out and began to grow in confidence as human and plane sang together.

At first Tom had nearly lost his own voice when Ripslinger had properly found his. What a gorgeous voice! But then Tom stopped singing altogether as he began to sense something very odd. He felt a sort of current wash over him. Not a current of air, certainly not a current of water. It was impossible to tell if it were hot or cold, but all the same it had struck him badly and sent a horrible chill down his spine, every hair on his body standing up. It was not unlike what he had felt that one day when Dusty had touched noses with him, but, as jarring as that had been, that had almost felt like a good feeling. Bright, positive, charged. This was distinctly different. This was a bad feeling. Corroded, black, and suffocating like tar.

There was also a sound that Tom thought he heard; little sussurations, only he couldn't associate them with anything. It was a breathless, lungless sound. It seemed to be in the air rather than coming from Ripslinger himself, and as the Mustang's voice began to grow stronger as he sang, the noise began to take on an eerie, haunting, near-and-far whine, making the human's ears ring. And when Tom heard that he realized that there had been no other sounds in the room since Ripslinger had really started to sing.

Strange emotions began to purvey over his consciousness. Not strange in that they were unfamiliar; he knew these feelings well. Sorrow, anger, despair, loss… But these feelings were not his. He knew it to be so. These emotions were admittedly much deeper and spoke of such long suffering that he was quickly beginning to become overwhelmed, and the constant whining that had been ringing in his ears was growing louder and more clear all the time.

His senses began to cloud over; sight, smell. He felt a surge of faintness pour up through his body. The whole world seemed to topple away and leave him alone in that dreadful place of bad feelings and nothingness. He was nowhere, and suddenly felt so small in the face of it that he thought it would choke him of breath. The whine then suddenly became a high, shrill clamor of such an uproar, as if every single thing in the hangar were screaming. Disjointed screams of horror and anguish. And it was at this point that the human's self-possession could stand no more. Ripslinger had still been singing when he was interrupted by a clattering thud, and then stopped and turned to see Tom sprawled out on the floor.

"Tom?" the big P-51 rolled closer, confusion written on his face, concern too, if you knew how to look. "Tom?"

He was about nudge the still human, but hesitated. Then Dusty came rolling into the hangar, Clarice not far behind him, looking alarmed and worried.

"Rip, is everything okay? I could have sworn I felt…" then he noticed Tom unresponsive on the floor with the green and black plane bent over him. "Thomas! What did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Ripslinger shot back defensively, "We were singing and he just passed out, I don't know what happened!"

" _You_ were _singing_?!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, what about Tom?" the checker-marked plane hastily redirected.

Clarice was already down on the floor, checking him. She ran a hand over his forehead, pushing his thick brown hair back.

"He's out cold, but he should be fine, I think," she assessed, giving a hard, appraising look at Ripslinger for a few moments, and it made the Mustang feel anxious for some reason. "Come on, let's move him over to the bed in case he wakes up rough. Come on, help me, I can't pick him up by myself."

Dusty was the one that ended up helping Clarice move Tom over onto his bed; she originally looked to Ripslinger, but, oddly, he made no attempt to hide his apprehension this time, almost seeming to be afraid to touch the boy. Dusty began to get nervous when he hadn't woken up after a few minutes, not knowing exactly how different human physiology was from his own, but Clarice assured both planes that they shouldn't be taking any action.

"Look it's fine, I'm telling you," she insisted, gently, "Just give his body a chance to recover on it's own. You can make a bad situation worse if you try to force it. Just keep an eye on him, but leave him alone." She went to leave the hangar, but turned as she neared the door-frame. "Dusty?"

"Yes?" he replied, his eyes not leaving the unconscious human.

"Can you come with me for a minute? I want to talk to you about something." The orange and white plane seemed hesitant, glancing at Ripslinger for a brief moment, before Clarice said in a sweet, almost patronizing voice, "Rip can watch him for a bit, won't you? He should be waking up any time now."

The girl and the smaller plane left, and Ripslinger was left alone with Tom. He watched the human from a distance, thinking. What was that look Clarice gave him for? He didn't do anything wrong, they were just singing. It just rubbed him the wrong way. He had always thought her to be weird, and Tom too, but then again, he thought all humans were weird. Annoyingly intuitive, the both of them. And then that really got him thinking. As often as Dusty, and sometimes Skipper, would sing, now that he thought about it, Clarice always seemed to suddenly make herself scarce. Could she somehow sense the involvement of their Soul's when they sang? Was Tom the same way? Could all humans? He inched closer to the sleeping mat, looking down at him. Did he really do this to him?

Just then his thoughts were interrupted as Tom stirred a bit. Ripslinger watched intently to see if he would wake, but was checked as the human murmured in a small voice.

"I wanna go home…"

It was almost like a little child's voice, and the Mustang was moved at once to pity him from the sentiment behind it and it's familiarity in spite of himself. Panic started to build as memories long locked away threatened to fight their way to the surface. He forced them back, and then sank into his landing gear.

"Oh Tom…" he sighed. "I'm sorry."

He crept just that much closer, nose cone nearly touching the boy's face, but then he quickly drew back again when he suddenly woke with a sharp, broken gasp. His eyes were wide as he looked around, finding himself in his own bed in Dottie's hangar.

"Rip?" he rasped, his voice thick with grogginess and disorientation. "What happened?"

"I… I don't know…" he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "What do you remember?"

Tom sat up, then immediately regretted it as his vision swam and he was tempted to just fall back into the soft padding of the mattress. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, his head pounding and neck stiff and aching.

"I remember us singing…" he seemed to try to strain to remember. "I don't really remember anything other than that."

Ripslinger was a bit disappointed. Could it have just been a coincidence? Some sort of fluke? He was nearly tempted to try to press further but Tom spoke first.

"You have a really nice voice too."

The human and plane stared at one another, Tom offering a small smile through the pain wreaking havoc in his brain and eyeballs. Ripslinger didn't quite know how to respond to that, but was spared when Dusty and Clarice came back into the hangar, the rest of the group following behind them, concern turning to relief. He was surrounded in an instant, surprised and smiling bashfully at such a display of care and consideration for someone they'd barely known for even two weeks yet, and was a little lost himself in how to properly respond. Ripslinger, for his part, used the distraction to quietly slip away.

Now he really was getting way more than he'd ever bargained in making this deal with Dusty. And he didn't want any of it. He was more confused and out of his element than ever. He wanted out badly already, but alas, couldn't fly and was stuck in this thing whether he liked it or not, which he didn't. This was just too much for him to be able to take in his condition right now. Curse that over-trumped crop duster! How much more could he possibly take from him? He snorted irritably from his exhausts, setting out to find somewhere he could properly be alone.


	17. Wilderness Training (Explicit Content)

It was a beautiful, almost overwhelming feeling. Better, more real than what he thought he was getting out of their usual nightly trysts before, if you will. Ripslinger felt what was surely true stillness, undeniable tranquility in his core after their activities that steamy, passionate night. Dusty for his part felt very tired all the way through in the aftermath of it, but it was a good kind of tired. A deeply taxed, but obliging satisfaction emanating from the heart of him, communication kept up as the larger plane hugged the little racer to him as they slept.

And Ripslinger knew that after that night, after all his stubbornness and trying to resist, this tiny little crop duster had gotten to him. He'd given in, and found out what wonderful feelings and sensations were to be had in his attempt to apologize in the only way he really knew how. And he knew that he would never get his fill of it. Apparently, he wasn't alone in this sentiment.

Despite the obvious good that had come from the encounter, Ripslinger was still very apprehensive about what it all entailed. Giving in to his loneliness, even in his life-long, obsessive quest to purge those feelings of want, of mastering detachment, only for it to be glaringly obvious all the time that simply indulging one's baser, carnal needs and shunning any form of attachment in the sake of avoiding complication or heartache does not necessarily make one happy. While he wasn't actively avoiding him, he had actually left Dusty alone for the most part for the next couple of days, deep in thought as he waffled back and forth over how he wanted to treat this.

The orange and white plane had approached him, feeling the Mustang's upset and hesitation, and slid up against him, pressing their frames together. For once, Ripslinger didn't rebuff him. It was Dusty, who after feeling the beginnings of distress within the checker-marked plane's Soul, that had shyly initiated their next session, having actually been rather eager since the last time to try it again to see if they couldn't get the same results.

Since then they'd fallen back into their regular routine for such activities, only this time they had been infinitely less tedious and Dusty had never once found himself getting bored. Ripslinger was more than happy to introduce him to things he'd never even dreamed about before now, and boy did he know how to keep things interesting. He had even let Dusty get in some practice having his turn on top a few times to boot. Those had been fun. Pretty soon, they had started simply engaging for the fun and pleasure of it, whether or not Ripslinger actually needed relief from what had been, until then, the constant, frantic strain of his Soul being unable to properly cycle through the damage done to it. Although this particular afternoon's romp had actually warranted it this time, it was no less tantalizing that it had been any other time.

Ripslinger lay down in contented serenity, still basking in the afterglow while Dusty was over taking a few laps from the stream that ran through their now favorite part of the woods down below town. They had started stealing away out here more often in favor of just doing it in Dusty's hangar for fear of the certain possibility of someone hearing them, or at least hearing the smaller of the two horny planes. Funny, Ripslinger hadn't really taken him for much of a screamer. It sure did make for some nice, titillating encouragement though, and a boost to his recently shaken ego since this whole mess had started. The P-51 was beginning to feel better than he had in ages.

The only problem was that any sex they had had to be kept to a minimum length-wise; they couldn't have anyone noticing them gone for too long a time, and Dusty could sometimes be annoyingly stringent about it, although Ripslinger wasn't all too fond of getting caught either. Dusty bowed down, taking a good, long stretch, his control surfaces raising up before standing back upright again and shaking himself a bit, the last of the residual pleasure from their earlier exertions ebbing away.

"Welp, that was fun!" he chirped, and Ripslinger was already starting to bristle inside at the tone in his voice that gave way to his next, predictable statement. "Guess we should head on back now. Got anything in mind for the rest of the day?"

"Well I was thinking of a quick meal, a little sex, a nice bath, and then coming back out here for another good fuck under the stars. But since you're so god damn paranoid about being found out I was thinking of just doing all of it at once."

Dusty's flaps were flung up in a comical display as his eyes widened at the awkward arrangement. But they just... How would he even be able to concentrate?!

"W-what? I mean... I'm not..." he stammered incredulously, "I don't mind sleeping or eating, but don't you ever just... stop?"

Dusty was absolutely flabbergasted at Ripslinger's ability of getting a hard-on practically any time he wanted. The Mustang's sexual appetite was never satisfied for long. It wouldn't matter how hard or for how long he went at it before, an hour's rest was all he needed before he was ready to go just as hard and long again.

"Stop what?"

Judging by the expression that briefly crossed Ripslinger's face, he had no idea what the other plane was implying. Not at first, and then it clicked in his mind. He didn't mention taking a bath either, but between that and the sex he was fairly certain which was implied. The need to shower after shooting a few loads was a given.

"Oh, you mean the sex." Clicking his tongue and cheek together, he continued. "I'm not really sure on that one. I've been having sex since I was a little dude. This one chick, quite a bit older than me, got me to eat her taco one night. Ended up getting the nachos and cheese too." He chuckled deeply. "Haven't really been able to stop myself since. It's like my switch broke and it's stuck in the "on" position. She didn't like that very much..." There was a barely noticeable dip in his voice as his wistful expression faded slightly. "Funny. All that time spent worming her way into me. Doesn't matter... not much. But none of the others I've been with could handle me either. You understand at least a little bit, don't you?"

Dusty sat, stunned at what he was hearing, just trying to absorb it all and the fact that Ripslinger was actually talking about his past, which he, and indeed next to no others knew about. He was pretty sure there was a word for what Ripslinger was called but he couldn't quite place it at the moment. He smiled awkwardly at him though, unsure if it had meant to be assuring or sympathetic or not. He just reacted, wondering if whether or not he, too, was going to be able to keep up with him through this thing. Surely so, all things considered, especially since he'd had to endure a lot more than just sex before, and even then the sex wasn't all that pleasant, although now during some sessions he sometimes wasn't so sure. God, he loved those though.

"Well, I can't say I've done it as much as you..." And of course he hadn't, seeing as how most male aircraft are sexually mature at around sixteen years of age but normally won't start actually having sex until they're around twenty, and even with his recent celebrity he hadn't taken nearly half of the opportunities that had come his way, being as scatterbrained and distracted as he was. "Is that why you never date?"

"Yeah. Seems like just having me for one night is enough for a lifetime for some ladies, heh."

Dusty let out a mute chuckle, even though he knew it probably wasn't the whole reason, but then something from earlier caught Dusty's attention in a delayed reaction to the shock of how open and talkative the green and black plane was being at the moment.

"Wait. When you say "little dude", how old were you?"

"Twelve." Ripslinger replied with no hesitation or inflection in his voice, and Dusty's tanks dropped a bit at the answer.

"Wow. You were still a few years away from flying. How old was she?" the smaller plane asked again, even though he didn't think he really wanted to know any more.

"She was sixteen? Seventeen? Somewhere around there."

"Oh..." Dusty sank a little in his landing gear, but he tried very hard not to look pitying, knowing that Ripslinger wasn't fond of that. He may have failed a little bit, even though the P-51 seemed really nonchalant about the memory. "You don't think that she took advantage of you?"

Now at this, Ripslinger finally showed some emotion.

"What?" he said, suddenly appearing to become antsy and uncomfortable as he thought about the question. "Well... I don't know. Maybe... What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing," Dusty said gently, not pushing the issue any further.

Another thing he knew that Ripslinger was not fond of was looking anything but perfectly composed. He hated to look foolish or unsure. Feelings of uncertainty or anxiety could very quickly lead to anger. Dusty knew this very well, and acted accordingly, approaching the larger plane slowly but directly to press as much of his frame against him as he could.

The Mustang gave no indication that the action was neither welcome nor unwelcome, he just let him do it, as if it were more for Dusty's benefit than his own, but the former-crop duster could still sense the feelings of relieved contentment from Ripslinger's state of self despite his aloofness. A partial link of communication spoke of such restful peace, of gratitude in recognition at the proximity, and a tired but empathetic acknowledgment thrummed up from Dusty's end. He nuzzled gently against the larger plane, and not only did he also let him do that, but he responded, his engine rumbling softly as he turned just a bit and pressed into it. Dusty smiled.

"You know, I think I'm actually beginning to like this," he said at length.

"Of course."

Dusty ignored the green and black plane's smug response and continued.

"I mean, I'm willing to keep going at this point, but are you sure that this is something special? That it's just about me?" he questioned to an unsuspecting Ripslinger as he arched a brow skeptically before adding in the kicker. "What if I'm not in the mood?" he concluded, eyeing the Mustang with a "Hmm?"

And at that, the larger plane went springing away from him.

"You mean... we can't have any more sex?" and the way Ripslinger had said was as if he were being deprived of the very air he breathed. Confused? You bet he was. "I thought you wanted to have sex with me now!"

Or maybe the smaller plane just wanted him cured as fast as possible and didn't care how anymore. The very thought filled Ripslinger with an almost sickening feeling, and the idea that such a thing would even bother him that much made his control surfaces start to tense as he fought the urge to go and chuck the former-crop duster off the side of the cliff. How dare he turn this around on him like that! And yet the checker-marked plane was able to calm himself down enough to speak in a level tone.

"Then I'll... just... have to wait for you be ready..." he said the words slowly, as if it were some great revelation. "And yes, it has to be you. I'm not fucking around when I say that this is something way different and nothing that I've ever experienced with any of the others I've ever been with. And I have been with a lot."

"Okay, okay," Dusty soothed sincerely, "I believe you. And I didn't say we couldn't have any more sex. It's just that I've been getting more of that than I really know what to do with in such a short time."

"Don't thank me."

"I wasn't going to," Dusty dead-panned, "But my point still stands. You're just going to have to be patient while I catch up is all, you know?"

"Oh..." Ripslinger began to mumble stubbornly in reluctance, "Well, all right. But just so you know," he went on, "I can't wait forever."

Of course "forever" by his terms was anywhere between twelve and twenty-four hours. Dusty chuckled a bit, approaching the big P-51 and sliding his body up under his chin reassuringly, a gesture that was quickly becoming his trump card in his improving judgment of the larger plane's moods, and with better and better results again and again.

"I know, I know... Come on, Rip, it's time we headed back."

"Do we have to?" the Mustang whined, his engine rumbling up seductively as he threw his left landing gear over Dusty's back, hugging the little racer to him,

"Can't we just stay here and fuck some more?"

Dusty chuckled again, pushing up against the weight which had become such a pleasurable sensation in itself by now.

"You're hopeless..."

XXxx

Tom sat on an old wooden chair just outside of Dottie's hangar eating a bowl of cereal as the two planes came ambling back into town. He watched them intently as he chewed. It was nice to see them getting along so much better. Ripslinger actually seemed to be getting along better with everyone lately, come to think of it. He was less tense, less stand-offish with the others in their little group. He hadn't hardly harassed Clarice at all lately, he and Skipper were more relaxed around each other. The two big war birds had actually sparred with one another once or twice, and while their movements were a bit stiff and testing the first time, and despite giving everyone a good scare, they had actually had a pretty good time of it.

Both planes, especially Skipper, were used to sparring with Dusty and restraining themselves down to just a fraction of what would be considered normal; fighting-stock aircraft tended to be a bit rougher during play than other aircraft. Dusty, for his part had been thrilled, although a little cowed at the power and how violent their sparring looked. A plane his size would be squashed, and they were just playing. But no one got hurt. It never got out of hand at any point. It was extremely encouraging.

Tom for his part had also been adjusting quite well into his place in the world of the machines, and this odd, hodge-podge but awesome family that he was a part of now. And he was happy. He was in much better spirits than he'd been in a good while. Clarice had been an enormous help in teaching him the ways of the aircraft in the bunch in particular, and answering any questions he had that he was still a little apprehensive about asking them directly. She told him about body language, sparring, what noises meant what from their engines, and how they prefer to be touched.

That had taken Tom by surprise, having always sort of wanted to see what it was like but thought such an action, especially from a human, would be considered rude or demeaning. These were sentient creatures, just as smart as any human, not animals, but Clarice had assured him that aircraft are very social and physical by nature and actually loved being touched, petted, or hugged. Of course with the asterisk of knowing your planes first.

Dusty was easy of course. Since becoming friends with Clarice, that plane had become spoiled on how she seemed to intuitively know the best times to approach him and quickly found where all his good spots where, and would probably sit still for hours for scratches and rub downs. At first he almost seemed to expect to be petted if he ever met any new humans; he thought all humans were like Clarice, which could sometimes lead to some awkward situations. Tom had been a little awkward at first himself, but Dusty was also quite intuitive and was very tolerant and encouraging. Soon enough Tom was taking after Clarice's lead, emulating the aircraft's body-pressing behavior by leaning or laying his whole rather paltry body weight against his frame, which Dusty still loved anyway, and giving him nice scratches on his belly in the place between his wings, which the human had quickly found out was his favorite.

The other two planes in the group were a different story. Despite being awestruck with almost childlike wonder at the old Corsair, Tom was actually scared to death of Skipper at first. Despite his age, he still carried himself in such a way that made him seem even bigger than he already was and just that much more formidable. Tom was sure the old geezer could still beat planes half his age and younger into the ground. Of course Dusty and Clarice had sussed him out despite all his best efforts to hide his misgivings about the old war plane, insisting that he wasn't anything to be afraid of. Clarice had even demonstrated by reaching up under the Corsair's chin one day, tiny human fingers able to access the minute chinks in his armor to the effect of the huge plane eventually going from bowing down to help her reach better to laying down fully, expression blissful as his engine purred loudly to a shocked and near-mortified Tom.

And then there was Ripslinger. Ripslinger was one that Tom had noticed Clarice rarely ever interacted with, let alone attempt to try touch him in any way. She had openly stated to Tom once that it was because she was afraid of him. Afraid of his silence. Afraid of his aimlessness. Afraid of the emptiness in his eyes. She would never quite elaborate properly, only saying that she wasn't liking the vibes she was getting from him; that he was different.

Not that Tom was blaming her. He also held some reservations about the P-51, having thought he could understand a little where she was coming from. He had gotten those same vibes since the day they first met, and in a way that he couldn't quite place, those feelings only seemed to grow more acute after his fainting incident a few weeks ago. There was something wrong with this plane, and with those sentiments came also a sense of some underlying danger. But despite it, both plane and human just couldn't seem to stay away from each other.

Although there had been a short period of avoidance from both after that day, they were back to their usual routine of Ripslinger coming and watching him play the different musical instruments he owned. The green and black plane especially liked it when he practiced on the Marimba. It gave him the best view of the movement of his arms and hands, which he found endlessly fascinating. It never failed to cause the Mustang to tip his nose up in impressed surprise whenever he would seamlessly switch into playing with two sticks in each hand, double-sticking, to Tom's veiled delight as he continued to play like he hadn't noticed anything.

The past week had been particularly relaxed between the two as Tom struggled, although not without success, to read Ripslinger's subtle tells. It wasn't all fear toward his odd behavior but also a certain amount of sympathetic concern. He was sure planes weren't born like he was. The few planes he had met were all quite friendly. Something must have happened to him to make him this way, but he was completely in the dark. No one would even tell him why Ripslinger was in Propwash Junction to begin with, which annoyed Tom to no end, because he knew there was no way he was going to just come up and ask the checker-marked racer outright.

So to pass the time, which for all he knew could probably go on forever, knowing Ripslinger the little that he knew him, he concentrated on just trying to get close to him. He felt that he could use all the friends he could get right now, and Clarice was wholly in agreement, it just couldn't be her. The green and black plane just seemed to carry a certain amount of animosity toward her, that although had lessened much as of late, she wasn't willing to play with. But he seemed to tolerate Tom somewhat. And so he, using what Clarice had taught him, gradually learned when was best to approach him and how, and probably most importantly, when to just walk away. He'd learned the hard way never to come up to him from his left side, and although the incident didn't lead to any bodily harm, Tom was sure it took a few years off his life. And that's how it went. But it was paying off.

Ripslinger had actually let him give his flank a few pats once or twice, and had even let him sit next to him during an intense session of loafing. But you had to be on your toes still, as Ripslinger had or hadn't mean to remind him. It was always impossible to tell with him. Upon abruptly standing up from his position to go taxiing off to wherever, he had startled Tom, who had taken the movement the wrong way, jumping back slightly and starting to raise his hands up. He looked around sheepishly, hoping that nobody saw, but of course Clarice came walking by, flashing him a small, sympathetic but humored smile, as if to convey "Been there before." as she passed. A smile pulled up at one side of his mouth as he turned and looked back at the retreating form of the P-51.

Despite all the new changes and adjustments by all parties involved, some of the more ingrained traditions of the gang in Propwash Junction were still quite strictly adhered to. The most recent being their end of the season camp-out down by the river; a sort of last hurrah before summer took its leave. Everybody had been looking forward to it. Well that was, everybody except Ripslinger.

The Mustang had griped and bitched and moaned all the way from Propwash Junction to their favored spot on the river. Ripslinger had always been rather fastidious practically his whole life and was very much an "indoor" plane, so the idea of camping and sleeping outside did not sit well with him. He continued whining after they arrived and started setting up camp, even though this particular spot was just perfect for their purposes. The river was very wide and clear here with a sandy bottom, and remained shallow for a good ways out, but the earth and grass around it was flat and packed in well and surprisingly dry.

Tom was eager to explore the surrounding woods and get a good hike in, being more outdoorsy than most that didn't know him would take him for. The others accompanied him for as much as they were physically able, although Sparky was willing to be a little more adventurous as he trundled over the lose earth and sticks and pine cones. At least until a rather large log had been jarred loose enough after Tom had entertained everyone with a balancing act on it that it began to roll down the hill, picking up speed and leading to an Indiana Jones moment with the human and forklift laughing and scrambling back down the hill in front of it, to the shouts of caution and alarm from the others down below.

It was getting later in the afternoon now, and the temperature had risen to the point where Dusty declared that he was getting in the water, although Skipper had already beaten him to it, and was nearly submerged up to his eyes out toward the deeper part of the river. Clarice had borrowed and driven Hugh's old Chevy to drive out to the camp site, and now it sat with the doors open and each of the humans on either side behind them changing into their swimsuits. Clarice stepped out first in this little black and white two-piece, a pin-striped vintage number with ruffles around the trim that looked like she could have ordered it straight from Paris.

"Hey Miss Beach Queen!" Dusty called, "You look awesome!"

"Thanks!" Clarice smiled.

She was just about to undo the cover up around her waist when she noticed Ripslinger was staring at her, expressionless except for eyes that were wide in unblinking shock. She wondered for a moment, and as funny as it was to see such a plane completely taken aback like that, being the kind of girl she was quickly overwrote that as her expression soured down.

"The fuck are you starin' at?"

Ripslinger took a soft breath as if to speak, looking entirely uncomfortable as he looked her up and down, but for once in his life was at a complete loss for any kind of comeback. Then Tom came out from behind the truck wearing deep navy blue trunks with a white skull design in front of an ace of spades on the right leg that looked just a tad too big for him. The P-51 then stared back and forth between the two of them one or two times, looking even more weirded-out, before huffing with a snort of his exhausts and going over to lay down in the grass under a tree, sulking. Tom looked over at him, confused, while Clarice took the cover up off the rest of the way.

"What a baby," she muttered as she threw it onto the hood of the truck.

With that awkwardness out of the way, everybody turned their attentions to the river. The humans and, to a lesser extent, aircraft had a bit more leeway as far as being in the water, but the rest of the group could do little more than get their wheels wet. Especially Chug, who had to be careful of getting stuck due to his considerable weight compared to Dottie and Sparky. Both humans were excellent swimmers, especially Clarice, who's Summers were spent swimming in the Gulf before coming to the Vivens machina's side of the sky. She would dive like a duck, her perfect, painted little toes sinking beneath the surface, and then everyone secretly take bets with each other as to where she would end up finally surfacing.

Ripslinger watched as Skipper allowed both humans to take turns using his long nose to dive off of. Tom had just done a jack-knife into the water when Dusty had come up to him, dripping from just being in the river.

"You wanna explain what the heck that was earlier?"

"Well, I..." Ripslinger faltered before screwing up some annoyed bravado, "You're telling me that that doesn't bother you at all?"

"Why should it bother me?" Dusty asked, "That's just the way they are; they're just wearing less clothes. I mean, to them, me and you are naked right now, and you don't see them freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out!" said Ripslinger defensively.

"Well then what's the problem? Why don't you come in the water with us?" the smaller plane suggested. "Just get used to it. I was the same at first, but I actually really like it now. It's nothing to be weird about, you'll see."

"I'll pass."

"Why?"

"Because airplanes and water aren't supposed to go together."

"What's the matter, are you scared? It stays really shallow pretty far out and the water's real clear."

"I'm not fuckin' scared!"

"Then come on! You dumped me in the ocean, and I got over it."

Ripslinger shot him an acidic stare then.

"Alright, fine!" he relented irritably, "But I'm not gonna like it!"

"Oh, you're going to like it," Dusty assured as they both made their way to the river's edge, then he bolted back into the water, splashing Ripslinger a bit with muddy water that he'd kicked up. "It's fun to swim! Just don't go where the water's higher than your intakes because than you might really drown."

"Thank you Dusty," the P-51 dead-panned glumly as he tentatively put his front wheels in the water.

He ventured further out, the water just coming over the level of his front landing gear, but then his left wheel rolled over a particularly silty spot and slipped out from underneath him, sending him crashing down into the water with a considerable splash. He lay there, water nearly up to his intakes and eyes shut tight as he fought back his embarrassment as the rest of the group tried their hardest not to laugh. At least everyone except Clarice, who had busted up with that loud, obnoxious "Ha ha ha!" laugh of hers when surprised by something she thought was funny.

"You okay?" she laughed, wading up a litter closer than she normally would. "How's the taste?"

Ripslinger lifted himself back up out of the water and then sprayed water out from between his teeth, hitting the human girl and knocking her down.

"I don't know, you tell me," he said nonchalantly as Clarice struggled back up out from under the water, spluttering as she pulled soaked curtain that was her hair apart form her face.

"You're such a fucking prick!"

Now that things were even, swimming commenced once again, although Ripslinger didn't do much other than just sit where he was as the water lapped at his flanks, wings just barely above the surface. He observed with growing interest as Dusty chased Clarice, the two of them splashing in and out of deep and shallower water. But interest slowly grew back into barely contained mortification as, once back in deeper water, Clarice had come swimming around and up alongside the little racer's right side. Using his wings as leverage, she heaved herself up onto his his back, Dusty staying still as he allowed her to climb up. She pulled herself with her arms further up his back, sliding on her stomach until she pushed herself up and sat up astride the plane.

Then Dusty, rearing up a bit against the resistance of the water, began to move through it. And Clarice, keeping her body loose even as she gripped him, balanced herself almost expertly, as if she'd been doing it all her life as she rode him like she was on the back of some mythical sea-beast. Ripslinger's discomfort and disgust toward the scene was gradually eroded away into consideration. Neither human nor plane spoke a word to each other. Just smiled contentedly, completely at ease. As if both had done this every day of their lives. It made the checker-marked plane feel very strange, but the feeling was not necessarily uncomfortable or bad in any way. He just couldn't quite place it.

Tom had also been watching Clarice and Dusty, intrigued as they came to a stop. Clarice carefully laid down fully on his back, resting the side of her face against him as she reached down and rubbed and patted his left flank, Dusty closing his eyes in tranquil relish. The human boy then looked over at Ripslinger, who was also wearing a look of interest. He was tilting a bit in thoughtful contemplation when he was interrupted.

"Do you want to try?"

Ripslinger's eyes shifted down to the right, turning slightly as he looked down to see Tom. It was a familiar question from the human. And as many times as he'd been asked while he had intently watched him practice with one musical instrument or another, he'd never taken him up on any of them. He was afraid of this boy. He was afraid of all humans, rightfully so, though he'd rather keep that to himself. But especially of this boy, and what he had, and was trying to offer him, as had all the others in Dusty's little gang, but it meant something very different to the Mustang coming from the human. He looked back again at Dusty and Clarice. That plane was just setting himself up, befriending that girl. He didn't know much, but he knew that humans lived relatively short lives compared to any of the Vivens machina. On a related subject, he also knew, with a certain amount of discomfort at the memory, exactly how fragile they were. Why should he willingly subject himself to that? And yet...

He looked back down at Tom. Ripslinger's only association with being touched my human hands had been pain. But he had let the boy pat him a few times and that had felt alright; nothing bad had happened. Perhaps Dusty was right. That it wasn't really as bad and icky he was thinking, that it was nothing to feel awkward about. Maybe if he just let him sit on his wing. Surely there was no harm in that? He took a soft breath.

"Okay."

Tom smiled, coming up to the big P-51's right side, then paused, thinking how best to climb up. Probably the tail, as his wings were set a bit too far forward on the fuselage to reach his back from there. But then before he could move, Ripslinger spoke again.

"Come on. Up on my wing."

"Oh, okay." Tom said, skipping along the sandy bottom of the river toward the aft of the Mustang's wing.

Now it was Dusty and Clarice's turn to watch, the orange and white racer staring with wide-eyed intent while the girl smiled hopefully as her chin rested on her arms on top of Dusty's canopy, a leg dangling idly at his side.

Tom placed a hand against Ripslinger's flank to give the plane a sense of where he was, knowing that aircraft didn't have a way to be able to really look behind them, and it was always best to move not too quick but be very direct and unhesitating about it with this particular plane. He placed his hands on trailing edge of Ripslinger's right wing, and felt the flap tense under them as the Mustang pulled in a breath. Tom waited a bit, and then jumped, pushing himself up onto the wing. It wasn't going to bad, honestly, but when the human was able to get a leg up to give himself some leverage, he suddenly felt a considerable quake go through the P-51's entire body as he shuddered, letting out a weak, shaking cry of surprise and discomfort.

His body tilted and shied away from the tetter, sending Tom sliding off of his wing and into the water as the plane practically scampered away. Dusty slumped down in disappointment, Clarice sighing from her position on his canopy. Almost.

The sun was starting to head down more into the western part of the sky when Skipper sent both Dusty and Ripslinger to fetch wood for a bonfire later after nightfall. They picked their way around, wandering further and further from the campsite. Dusty for once said little, but Ripslinger moaned and groaned about how muddy his tires were and how the lake water made his plating feel weird and gross.

"We're only going to be out here for a day. You'll live."

Upon rounding a bend in the river, Ripslinger spied a likely looking dead tree, riding up on it and using his weight to push it over so that it could be broken up further. Most of the weight he'd lost had nearly been gained back. His flanks were no longer sunken in the way they had been, although he still had what Dottie would call a "ribby" appearance and had just a bit more to go before he was back at full weight again. It was nice to see him getting back to the healthy, virile appearance that a fully mature male Mustang should have. And his actions pushing the tree down were giving Dusty ideas.

He sidled up along side him as Ripslinger was working to break up the tree, seeming to be enjoying the tension released upon snapping the branches. The smaller plane's little engine rumbled as his breath tickled against the P-51's plating. The green and black racer smiled but yet tried to ignore him, until Dusty stroked his body more fervently against his frame, giving it a few licks.

"You're just asking for trouble if you're gonna keep that up." he warned.

"Of course. I should just wait until we get back to camp. I'm sure Skipper will be happy to supervise."

Ripslinger was silent. Dusty looked around casually at their surroundings.

"We're pretty far out of earshot about now aren't we?"

Ripslinger was still silent.

"What if we saw something? You know, had to go check it out. No one'll notice us coming back just a few minutes later."

And then a sinister grin spread across Ripslinger's face.

"I don't do _anything_ to you that takes 'just a few minutes'"

At that he turned, Dusty backing up at the P-51's expression, looking shyly coy until he felt his tail gear go into the water behind him, but Ripslinger continued to push forward.

[[WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

"Uh, Rip? You're kind of backing me into the lake."

"Yeah?"

"You know sand and mud and stuff's gonna get everywhere." the orange and white plane attempted to deflect, but Ripslinger's usual fastidiousness was apparently far from his mind at the moment.

"I'll deal," he said flatly, his cock springing free of its compartment as Dusty bit his lip, letting out a soft little groan at the sight.

He mounted the little racer, Dusty tilting down a bit before he was even prompted. He yelped when the larger plane entered him and quickly bit his lip again to try to silence himself.

"I doubt they can hear us from here, Dusty."

"Don't talk...," he moaned, wheels digging in as the water sloshed at his belly. "Not now... Just move..."

Ripslinger covered him and began thrusting in deep, almost frantic strokes, his wheels slipping on Dusty's wet wings as he struggled to keep his balance through it. And he continued making the noises that the big P-51 loved to hear. Every time he whimpered, or shouted, or begged, or tried to move, Ripslinger did exactly what he didn't know he wanted in his creepily intuitive fashion.

The two planes' movement was causing them to gradually slide back further and further into the lake, every crevice of them steadily filling with sand and silt. As Dusty started racing closer and closer to his edge, the sun was starting to set, and Ripslinger was driving into him like a jackhammer, face showing the strain of soon reaching his own peak as his Soul's relief and jubilation added to his ecstasy.

[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

They both appeared back at camp an hour and a half later after they'd left, both planes looking like they'd been caught in a mudslide and trying desperately not to smile through the sticks and branches gripped in their teeth. Skipper had been waiting for them. If the Corsair had had a toe to tap, it would be tapping as he stared them down. He made Clarice and Tom go get the firewood after that.

Later, after the moon had made its appearance, Sparky had gotten the bonfire roaring. They all gathered around it with their sticks and their marshmallows. Tom was having himself a time. He loved camping and hadn't been in, well, a while, and considering the company he kept now, everything was just perfect. He was currently sat between Ripslinger and Clarice, Dusty on her other side chattering away to Chug through his teeth as he gripped his stick. Tom looked over just in time to see his marshmallow go up in flames.

"Uh, Dusty?"

"Got it," he said calmly as he jammed his stick into the dirt, blew out the flames, sucked the black skin off of the marshmallow, and then picked the stick back up and stuck it back into the fire.

"Dusty likes to cremate his marshmallows," Chug explained in a dead-pan tone.

Tom chuckled mutely as he tended to his own marshmallow. He had this system you see; he had to have them perfectly golden yellow. Once he had gotten it just the way he liked it he paused, looking up at Ripslinger to the right of him. Without saying anything, the human boy pointed the stick in the checker-marked plane's direction, who looked down at it for a few seconds. He leaned down close to the marshmallow, taking a few good snuffs of it, Tom listening to the force of the air rushing in. Then Ripslinger opened his mouth, a thick, strong, long-ish lavender-gray tongue reaching out, and Tom checked slightly as he watched it change shape, the sides along the first third of it flattening out before curling ever so delicately around the marshmallow, gripping it and pulling it into his mouth. Tom, fascinated, quickly did up another and offered it to the Mustang, and he watched openly as the action was repeated. Ripslinger noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing," the human said, "It's just... interesting."

"Hey, wanna see my trick?"

Ripslinger opened his mouth wide, extending his tongue somewhat, and Tom watched as the plane made the sides along nearly the entire length of his tongue go flat this time, then curled them over until they were touching before making them undulate. Dusty scoffed.

"That's not a trick," he said, "All aircraft can do that!"

And then he demonstrated, opening his own mouth wide and imitating what Ripslinger had just done.  
"Yeah, but he doesn't know that," the green and black plane reasoned, amused at the humans' reactions.  
Clarice had looked over at Dusty but then quickly looked away, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as she put up a hand at the side of her face to further shield her sight. Both humans had been quite abashed at a plane such as Dusty doing something considered quite a suggestive gesture by their own kind. Clarice, for her part, was hoping to God that Skipper didn't go and do it next. She'd probably keel over dead.

XXxx

Ripslinger slowly came out of a fog as he came to. His mind was scrambled. His sight swam horribly. He was nauseated. His hearing didn't want to work, sounding like he was water-logged. He knew this feeling quite well. He had been drugged. Heavily. He was also restrained, even though he barely had the energy to draw breath in his current state. There were people bustling about and talking. People in white coats. And upon seeing one or two in different, but familiar uniforms, he slowly started to wake up as dulled fear began to brew in his belly. They were Cutters. His breathing picked up as he made a pathetically weak attempt to rise. How? Then, as his tired, fuzzed up eyes scanned around as far as he could, they cleared enough for him to see what was behind the bars a little ways in front of him, and he was nearly knocked sober. _No..._

Dusty was there, some weird, muzzle-like contraption around his face, chained and bolted to the floor of the cage. He was terrified. Ripslinger could see it in his wild, tear filled eyes as the little plane shook, looking in near hysterics. If he was here, then where were the others? Had they all been captured too? The two planes caught each others eyes then. _No... please..._

Why was this happening? Again? He couldn't take it. They should have never rescued him. The Cutters tracked him down to take back the crowning jewel of their collection of test subjects and took all his friends too. _Friends..._ At least he wouldn't be left behind. But he didn't want them to suffer and die! Not for him.

Ripslinger and Dusty continued to stare into each others eyes pleadingly, a horrible sense of dread and inevitability passing between them. But then Dusty's eyes moved to something that was on Ripslinger's left side before they widened in horror and squeezed shut, more tears escaping them. Two seconds later the sound of a saw went ringing out through the air, and he felt it go slicing right into his plating just above and behind his left wing, his agonized screams echoing all around through the endless corridors and bunkers.

XXxx

Ripslinger woke hard with a gasp and a start, nearly leaping to his landing gear. He was still at the campsite. It was nearly pitch black but for the moon and what was left of the bonfire after it had been doused down to a manageable smolder. He looked around wildly, breathing heavy and harsh. The terrestrial vehicles were crowded around in front of the robin's egg blue Chevy where the humans were sleeping, Clarice in the cab, Tom in the truck bed. He found Dusty sleeping, nestled down next to Skipper, the old Corsair snoring.

He let out a whining sigh as his engine moaned softly. His landing gear began to tremble. He shook himself, lightly, but it didn't go away, and was steadily getting worse. Ripslinger stood up fully, and quietly went ambling off wearily to try to find somewhere private to get through the shaking. It wouldn't last. They were hardly even an issue anymore. He didn't need to be bothering anyone with it tonight. Not when they were all so happy and sleeping so soundly. Well, they were all happy, but not all of them were asleep.

Tom lay on his back, hands behind his head in the bed of the old Chevy, staring up contentedly at the stars, picking out all the constellations he could find. The stars were unbelievably visible out here. Then he heard a gasp and a shuffling. He poked his head above the side of the truck bed, just seeing Ripslinger's tail disappearing into a bushier area away from the campsite.

Tom unzipped his sleeping bag and pulled it away from him, hopping out of the truck to follow. Ripslinger wasn't difficult to find in this case. His tires made tracks in the dirt, and his wings scraped and took chunks out of the surrounding foliage. He found him shortly, slunk down almost to where his belly touched the ground, shaking as his breath came in shallow, shaking efforts. Concern spread across Tom's face as he carefully came closer, and the P-51 finally went town the rest of the way.

"Rip?"

He seemed to shrink into himself, eyes shut tight, as he heard his name called. He tried to stand again, but gave up on it and sank back down to the ground, a hissing growl gurgling up from his engine. And still the human persisted.

"Rip? Are you okay? What's happening?"

Was this one of those awful fits that he'd heard about? Tom had never actually seen him in the middle of one, but knew he had them. What should he do? Was there anything he _could_ do?

"Tom, please..."

Tom blinked into attention, waiting for Ripslinger to tell him how to help him.

"Go away..."

A touch of disappointed annoyance flitted across his face, but then his sympathy bled back through as the Mustang's engine rolled up in another stressed moan.

"You're hurting..." the human pressed gently, "I can't leave you alone."

"You hah... have to..." the big plane panted painfully, "I'm about to lose control."

"... No your not." Tom said firmly, although his voice was still soft.

He walked up on the green and black racer's right side, stopping once he got to the aft of his wing. And then after a moment's hesitation, he reached out, trailing softly with his fingers down the side of the P-51's face.

"I'm not safe... Not... safe..."

Ripslinger shuddered at the contact. Tom kept going, reaching up again, only this time he had pressed his almost whole hand gently against him as he stroked him. The tremors began to lessen as the checker-marked plane's attention was drawn to the fact that a human was touching him. The same species that had terrorized and tormented his dreams since being rescued, making it just that much harder for him to sleep at night. And it didn't hurt, even though Ripslinger's eyes were still shut as he grimaced slightly. Tom was just letting his hand rest against him for the moment until the shaking finally stopped.

"Thank you..." Ripslinger said softly, "Now please... Leave me... I'll be okay in a little bit."

Tom withdrew his hand, still reluctant to leave the Mustang's side. But he would respect his wishes now. He'd done his part, and would press him no further.

"Okay..."

Ripslinger still lay where he was, listening as Tom's footsteps faded away back toward camp. He released a quiet, strained sob as he tried to press himself even further into the dirt, as if trying to bury himself, eyes shut tight and teeth grinding as a shiny, inky black liquid oozed from between them.


	18. Sound Check

The days were beginning to cool now. Fall was surely upon them as the daylight began to grow shorter, but it didn't stop the planes and other vehicles of Propwash Junction from taking every opportunity available to enjoy the rather fine weather the last few weeks. It wouldn't be long before things began to turn cold, so Dusty and the others spent most of their idle time outside, playing or lying in the sun.

Ripslinger had been somewhat quiet. Not exactly stand-offish or even melancholy, but just very reserved. No one pried, even Dusty, who had resigned that if the P-51 wasn't talking, there was no way he was going to get it out of him. So instead the smaller plane in turn gave him his space, just touching or nuzzling the checker-marked racer every so often, letting him know that he was there whenever the larger plane was ready, and although he didn't shun Dusty's affections or made any indication that they were unwanted, he didn't really return any of it.

Ripslinger still kept up his usual routines. Lazing about in his favorite spots, although seeming more contemplative than outright loafing, or indulging Dusty in a short game of sparring here and there, even if it was a little half-hearted. He continued coming to see Tom practice his snare or horn or the Marimba, but instead of his usual watchful interest, he more often laid down now, eyes closed as he just listened. More than a few times, especially during the last week, the boy had looked up from his playing to notice Ripslinger, nose and eyes lifted to the sky longingly at the sound of an airplane flying overhead. Dusty had also noticed that as calm and non-confrontational as the P-51 had been behaving lately, something was still definitely amiss with him. After a practice flight with Skipper, the little racer had watched in quiet, contemplating concern from the door frame to his hangar as Ripslinger chewed fervently into one of his tires.

It had taken an unusually long time, but eventually his self-inflicted injuries to the hydraulics and fuel lines in his wings had healed, and Dottie had cleared him with full function restored. The green and black plane had come to respect her skill and creative intuition as a mechanic. Having been in racing as long as he had, he knew what a good mechanic was. She was actually the first he really started interacting with aside from Dusty, despite having a rather short way with terrestrial vehicles as quite a few aircraft were prone to being. The Mustang preferred straightforward types like Dottie.

He had gained almost all of his weight back now, and was looking quite splendid again, and yet not once did he ever express any desire to take flight. Not since that escape attempt he'd made when he'd first been brought to Propwash Junction after what seemed like forever ago. Of course Dusty had always asked if Ripslinger wanted to accompany them on his and Skipper's flights, but he had always declined, and so after a while the issue was never bothered with again until now. The others in the group would watch him follow Dusty and Skipper out to the runway, but then he would hang back and just watch them take off. _Why doesn't he just fly?_ Tom would think to himself. Dusty had been having the same concerns, and had expressed them to Dottie after Ripslinger's final full exam and weigh-in.

"I don't know, Dusty," the little blue forklift had said, "There is literally no medical reason that I can find for him not to be able to fly, but I do think that it would really do him some good. Whatever's holding him up, I think you should really try to encourage him to come out with you and Skipper."

And so the next day, Dusty asked, and of course, Ripslinger deflected immediately.

"Nah, I don't really feel like it today."

"Well sure you do," Dusty said, staying doggedly on the subject, "I see the way you look every time a plane flies over."

Ripslinger said nothing.

"Is it because of your injuries? Do you think maybe you're a little scared to go back up? I know it's been kind of a long while too..."

"I'm not scared!" he finally responded with his usual indignance, "It's just that I've been... You're all..." he trailed off, his voice quickly losing the power that it previously had. "I can't..."

"Yes you can," the smaller plane encouraged, "It'll be alright. Just follow us up, we'll be right there, right in front of you."

Ripslinger stared at him for a time, still looking skeptical, but nevertheless followed Dusty and Skipper, this time all the way onto the runway behind them. Everyone had held their breaths when, upon starting his engine, it only turned over for a few seconds before dying off, but then released them when his engine finally came roaring to life as his propellers span into a flickering blur on his second attempt. He revved it a few times, little white puffs and wisps of smoke emanating from his exhausts as the wash from his prop blades blew it away, eventually blowing clear after a short moment as they all got into position. Skipper was leading out front, then behind a little ways and off to the side was Dusty, followed the same by Ripslinger.

They began their takeoff. The bass-y muscle of Ripslinger's massive engine roared up stronger as he followed behind the Corsair and the smaller orange and white plane in front of him. From their position on the ground, those watching could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Everything sounded great, but then, when the checker-marked Mustang began to gain speed and momentum, that same chilling, distressing feeling from all that time ago, when he had tried to escape, permeated all throughout his body, even stronger than that last time. He pulled himself up sharply, swinging his nose over as he skidded to a stop, his landing gear shaking as he watched Dusty and Skipper go flying off into the skies. He'd barely made it a third of the way down the runway.

Despite this failure, Dusty had still remained hopeful. It was a start, and in spite of himself, Ripslinger tried again the next day. This time around he seemed to have just a little more confidence, fighting through his discretions as Tom and Clarice ran at either side of the runway to try to give him some more support. It seemed to work, and he quickly passed them up, but then as soon as his tail-gear began to lift from the ground, he again came to another abrupt stop, turning away from the runway and into the grass as the other two planes went soaring away.

"Okay," Dusty had said, still sounding chipper, "That's not bad; we're getting closer. We'll get it."

On the third attempt, everyone, terrestrial vehicles and humans alike, ran at either side of him, Tom with his jacket pulled over his head and out to the sides like wings. This time, Ripslinger had managed to actually get all three wheels off the ground, but was only airborne for precious several seconds before aborting and hopping back down again. Everyone looked on, sad and anxious, as he came to a stop, trembling hard. There were no more tries after that.

A somber air had hung over the entire group now in the following days. There wasn't a whole lot of talking amongst them, even. No one really knew what to do or to say. Life went on as usual, of course, but everyone's thoughts were troubled. Ripslinger, for his part, had acted as if nothing had changed, but his recent despondency continued. Currently, he was sat just outside of Dottie's hangar as Tom was at practice once again on his Marimba, the huge, checker-marked plane laying down with his frame turned slightly away from him as he listened, eyes staring ahead at nothing in particular.

Tom was somewhat of the same mind. He had never been one to dwell on things. Time doesn't stop for anyone. Not for him when he was sent to this dimension, losing his family, his friends, and whatever goals that he had gone through great pains trying to get himself set up for. And certainly not for the grand champion racer.

Mallets fluttering effortlessly over the keys, the boy continued his exercises. What does it help though? All this laying around? He was sure, as much as he had loved flying and anything to do with aviation back in his own reality, that he of course would never be able to properly relate to Ripslinger and how much of an added stress and frustration and anxiousness not being able to fly would bring to any aircraft. He had heard talk here and there in his wanderings, from machines, and even some other humans, that flying was an aircraft's soul. Tom stopped playing. He remembered Skipper, after a rather unsuccessful attempt at interaction with Ripslinger one day, warning him, albeit rather cryptically for the human's taste.

"You ought to be careful how you behave around him. You can't treat him like you would Dusty, or me. He's not like us. He's not like any of the other planes."

Well music was _his_ soul, if it comes to that. Maybe he couldn't understand the P-51, with all his eccentricities, but Tom knew that Ripslinger understood music, and there was their common ground. He stepped away from the Marimba, sticks in hand, and approached the pensive, checker-marked Mustang. Ripslinger checked very slightly as he felt Toms presence enter his proximity and looked up. The boy said nothing, only held the mallets up to him. He already knew what he was being asked.

The unspoken exchange between man and machine found Ripslinger approaching in front of the Marimba while Tom dug around his little work area for some more mallets. As the human searched, Ripslinger looked intently at the ( _what did the kid call it?_ ) idiophone in front of him. The keys were made of red rosewood, beautifully carved and preserved. Rip knew that rosewood was the best material for Marimbas, along with many other components of other instruments, but it just looked so damn _good_ too _._ Now was the first time that Rip realized that this was actually a rather beautiful instrument.

Leaning down slightly, he tapped one of the keys with his propeller, being very careful not to damage the ten-grand instrument. From it came a wonderfully lush and beautiful sound, just like Ripslinger was expecting. However it seemed slightly… different than he was used to. Perhaps it was because of the make-up of his propeller blade, or maybe it was the fact that he was the one making the noise in a sort of subconscious way. He already heard thousands, if not tens of thousands, of notes played from this instrument, so what would he be expecting it to sound like if he played it himself? But lo and behold! It did sound different! After what felt like a mini-fortnight, Tom finally emerged from the organized chaos that was his work area.

"Here's a couple pair you can use," Tom said, placing said pairs on the Marimba. "Where are those bracers that you had when we…"

Tom trailed off, his mind flashing back to him and Ripslinger first playing the snare drum. He was getting those same, odd vibes again. There was a very slight whiff of the emotion at the proximity that confused the human. It was almost like… regret. Regret of what, he wasn't sure, but the feeling washed over Tom for a microsecond before Ripslinger returned back to his natural stoic expression. The question had apparently got through to the P-51, however, as he said, in a single word, "Sparky's."

After a quick run, Tom returned with the bracers from Sparky. In his impatience and eagerness however, and with a blatant disregard for his sense of self-preservation, Tom seemed forget his manners, and immediately reached up to adjust the bracers properly onto the huge plane's propeller blades. Ripslinger froze, sucking in a sharp, surprised breath through his intake, but otherwise made no move to reprimand the boy for his indiscretion like he had at other times. He only stared, eyes unblinking and focused on Tom's hands as they tightened the bracers down. Now, up this close, while Tom had already made the observation that Ripslinger's prob blades seemed to be unusually sharp early on, he noticed that they seemed to be made of a strong material that he wasn't familiar with, and there were also tiny little serrations in the edges of them. _What?_

And then he remembered what plane they belonged to. _Uh oh._ Now it was Tom's turn to freeze. But yet, he was still standing. He looked up at Ripslinger's face, and his brows quirked in confusion at the unwavering, almost bemused stare he was receiving.

"... Rip?"

The P-51 blinked with the slightest shake at the sound of his name being called.

"You okay?"

After drawing in a somewhat deep, quiet breath, carefully trying to sift through and formulate his response, Ripslinger spoke.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Tom looked at him a little harder.

"... You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Ripslinger answered with a little more usual edge to his tone.

 _This kid trusts way too freely,_ the Mustang thought to himself. What in the world did he possibly think he stood to gain from befriending the likes of him, let alone any of the others? He seemed to have at least some sense of what he had to lose. So why does he help him? _Why help that which is utterly useless to you?_ He thought as he approached the Marimba.

"Because I care."

Ripslinger snorted lightly from his exhausts as his eyes shot up to Tom's face. It had been in response to their earlier exchange, but Ripslinger had thought at first that somehow the boy had been able to read his mind. He shook his body a bit in discomfort all the same. The human cleared his throat.

"Here, let's start with something simple…"

Then Ripslinger was taught the basics from Tom: Intervals, sticking, how to hit the marimba correctly, scales, and how to change the width of the sticks. Tom seemed satisfied with how much and how quickly Ripslinger had learned just within a few hours.

"Well, now that you learned all the basics, let's actually play something."

Running back to his little area, Tom grabbed what appeared to be a music stand, and with some sheet music on the top. Then, to Ripslinger's surprise, Tom stood on the _opposite_ side of the marimba.

"What are you doing?" Ripslinger said to him with an annoyed look. "Have you been playing it wrong all along just to trick me and piss me off?"

"No," Tom snorted, "it's just what the music calls for. Here, let's start from the very top," Tom said, pointing to the very beginning. "You play Marimba 1, okay?"

"Already giving me first chair?" Ripslinger replied snarkily.

"Well, you're used to playing on that side at this point; plus _I've_ memorized the entire piece from _this_ side."

Yet another thing that surprised Ripslinger about Tom is that it seemed that he was almost preparing for this day, with every thing he said calculated perfectly. It was a little creepy, but also somewhat admirable at the same time how Tom was always trying so hard to read him. Looking at the top, he saw the first four bars of music. The writing just looked like Hieroglyphics to Ripslinger, as it had been so long since he read music, but those short, happier memories of his life were slowly being reactivated as he played the motif slowly, although in tempo. He seemed a little apprehensive at first, but each bar he seemed to gain more confidence.

"Nice job, Ripslinger. Pretty good for a first time," Tom said, clapping his hands. "Let's go into the next part, only this time I'm going to be playing along with you."

Ripslinger squinted at the next line, unused knowledge after so many, many years slowly coming back to him as he looked at it:

Rip started playing the motif, along with Tom in almost perfect unison, before Tom stopped the plane.

"You think you can shape that motif? Try interpreting it like you wrote it yourself," Tom suggested. "The listeners can feel that you know.."

Ripslinger was a little shocked that Tom was saying that like they were actually going to _play_ in front of people at some point. Nevertheless, Rip shaped the motif, before both of them looked at each other, and shared a slight smile between them. Ripslinger suddenly felt a quickening, a rumbling up of energy inside of him as he started from the top again, and started to play through the entire piece with Tom.

 _Ripslinger is a natural at this thing…_ Tom thought to himself. _Maybe I should try to transcribe Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2 for Marimba. That would probably be so much_ _ **fun**_ _to play_. Putting that thought into the back of his head for later, he continued on playing the song, his face scrunched in concentration.

To be honest, Ripslinger couldn't remember the last time he had so much fun. Not to mention those hands in front of him. The hands that were so delicate and flowing in their nature and know-how, but the same kind of hands that caused him so much pain, that had ruined him completely now. Beyond whatever hope of recovering and living a normal life he might have had before. Ripslinger stopped suddenly. Tom continued on for a good period of time, before finally looking up at Ripslinger and noticing that he had stilled.

"Rip? You okay?"

A single, lone tear fell down Ripslinger's fuselage, so big coming from the plane that it was audible as it hit the hangar floor. Tom had suddenly realized how much time had passed as he looked out the open doors to Dottie's hangar. The sun was starting to head low into the western side of the sky.

The boy came around to Ripslinger's side of the Marimba, and this time _slowly_ reached up to remove the bracers from his propeller blades, oddly reminiscent of the end of that first day they had all met. Once they were off, Tom reached out again to lay his hand on the side of the plane's nose cone, again, just like that first day, Ripslinger tipped his nose up, backing away somewhat.

Tom tried again, going even slower this time as he stared Ripslinger straight in the eyes, trying to convey that he meant no harm while at the same time trying to gauge what the huge plane might do in reaction to his pressing. Ripslinger kept his own eyes on Tom's hand, staring unblinkingly, and almost imperceptibly, continued to reverse. Finally, when the P-51's patience wore out and his anxiety got the better of him, he went stiff in his landing gear and gave a harsh flutter from his engine that startled Tom into stillness, but the human's own patience was still strong.

"I thought you told Dusty you were going to try to get used to us," Tom griped, "us" meaning all humans.

"God, do you hear _everything_?" Ripslinger snapped back.

"Yes," Tom answered without missing a beat. "You're never going to get used to humans if you won't even let me touch you, and there's just going to be more and more of us," Tom informed. Perhaps if the Mustang were given a little control over the situation? "Here," the human continued, "Why don't you just come to me then? I won't even move."

Ripslinger didn't move himself at first, still reluctant to make any sort of contact. It's not like he didn't already know what people felt like. He knew what they felt like, and those experiences had all been negative. Unpleasant, even when he'd managed to get loose and exact some revenge on a few of his tormentors when held captive by the Cutters. He shuddered mentally.

But here was Tom, this young, skinny human, standing still with his arms out to his sides, as if offering himself up. He was naive, Ripslinger thought. He doesn't know any better. Not like the others. And yet here they all were anyway. There they all were after everything, supporting him and running by his sides to encourage him to fly, even though they themselves would never properly understand that kind of world. But then again, maybe that's why they all did it. He lowered his nose.

Maybe he could be happy here. Tom stood stock still as the green and black plane came very slowly forward, and with a touch barely there, touched the point of his nose cone into the center of his chest. Ripslinger had marked himself long ago as being incapable of any sort of attachment. He was broken somehow, he admitted it. Besides, was it all really worth the risk?

Tom had stayed true to his word, and made no attempt to touch Ripslinger as he continued to just sit with his nose lightly pressing into his chest. The big plane was slightly shocked to feel a soft, but strong, steady thumping of what he didn't know was the boy's heart, and wondered curiously if humans didn't have little engines in them too.

But after everything he'd been shown since being rescued and brought here, despite all his resistance, maybe it was worth it. Maybe he could allow himself to try again now. To love them, and allow them to love him.

The human watched as the checker-marked P-51 moved slightly down and to the right, keeping contact as he pressed the side of his nose against his ribs, sensitive nose cone feeling the little bumps of bones underneath the thinner skin there through his shirt.

But a person who loves is weak. Ripslinger had learned that lesson the hard way. The more you give, the more it controls you until you have lost yourself and everything you hold dear. They will do anything for their loved ones. They will die for them. He couldn't have that. Not for himself, and certainly not for Dusty or any of the others. He simply wasn't worth it.

Tom could feel the pull of the plane's breath. Hear it being taken in, rushing through his airways as he breathed at such close quarters. Ripslinger had not moved for a good few moments now, and for the life of him, Tom thought he felt some undercurrent of dissent, some sort of turmoil. He had no idea how or why he was feeling these things, but had the distinct feeling that they were coming from the green and black Mustang in front of him, and he was moved, in spite of himself, to bring one of his hands up and place it on Ripslinger's nose.

Old, long-suffering fear and doubt began to creep into the plane. No... Why couldn't he have this? He was happy. He was content here. But when Tom had brought his arm up, the dark, almost black material of his jacket had blinked out of the light, and for a split second Ripslinger saw a flash of red as a narrow, angular eye appeared in the sleeve. A hauntingly familiar, hissing rumble rolled up in his mind as his olive eyes widened in horror before he slammed them shut, blocking out the image. _No!_

" _No such thing... No such thing..."_ a cold voice echoed.

"Rip?" Tom had called out to him, hearing nothing and now frozen in his movement when Ripslinger had flinched.

But the P-51 was oblivious to the boy as mean, cruel thoughts festered in his mind and began to consume him. That this was the best he could ever hope for. That this was as good as it was ever going to get. He wasn't capable of anything more. And because it will all be gone soon enough.

 _Leave... Everyone..._ They would all be taken from him. In the worst possible way. And he would he powerless to stop it, just like before. _No... No, please... Happy... I'm... I'm so happy!_ There had to be a way! He had to keep this feeling. This strange place. He must protect it. _Friends..._ He wouldn't let them be taken away from him again. He had to save them! _Oh, Chrysler, help me!_

"...Rip?"

Dusty had been alerted to the sounds of desperate shouting and what sounded like some sort of very unusual engine noise, and once rounding the corner to Dottie's hangar, he was immediately beset by the sight of Ripslinger pulling Tom up away from Clarice as she grasped the boy's hand, his left leg gripped in the Mustang's teeth.

"Ooh, for fuck's sake, no," Dusty breathed before diving forward, yelling, "Skipper!"

It had all happened in an instant. When Tom had finally placed his hand on Ripslinger, the green and black plane's nose had dropped down, pushing against him sideways as he went, and as Tom lost his balance and fell back, Ripslinger had caught him up by his leg. And it was odd. It wasn't actually painful, really. Just a massive amount of pressure as the checker-marked racer's sharp, conical rear teeth pierced through his jeans and sank into the top and bottom and his thigh and the lower part of his calf. Clarice, with her seemingly always impeccable timing, had been walking up. She gasped, jumping up and grabbing Tom around his torso as he was pulled bodily off the ground.

"Rip!" she shouted, "Rip, let go!"

At first Ripslinger had simply held Tom's leg in his mouth and didn't really move. The human was only vaguely aware, through shock and adrenaline, of the wet, warm feeling of blood starting to soak into his jeans now. But then when Clarice had grasped him a little tighter and started to try to pull him away from the P-51, Ripslinger had responded by tightening his own grip down like a vice and began to pull in the opposite direction. It was then that Tom had actually began to feel a deep, sharp pain with the added pressure.

"No, no..." he had said when he felt himself being pulled at either end, but panic had quickly run into his voice at the feeling of the bones in his legs starting to bend under the stress, "Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!"

Clarice had already halted her efforts by the time Tom had started to protest, letting the boy go completely except to keep a hold of his hand.

"I'm right here, Tom," she said, her voice forced and breathless with fear and anxiety. "It'll be okay. Don't panic."

 _Yeah, right, don't fucking panic_ , Tom thought even as he was more or less succeeding in outwardly holding himself down, but had yet still been too frightened to verbalize his feelings on the matter at the moment. Almost his whole leg was gripped in the jaws of a plane that could probably swallow him whole for crying out loud! He looked to Ripslinger's eyes, and found them just staring blankly ahead. There was something there though, that was certain, but what exactly, Tom couldn't place, but he found himself disturbed at what he saw. Like the lights were on, but nobody was home.

By that time the rest of the group were all there, but were all at a loss as to what to do to free their human friend without subjecting him to further injury. Tom had let go of Clarice's hand and had reached up and was holding himself up with his hands gripping into Ripslinger's propeller blades. He saw the green and black plane's expression turn slightly defensive with the addition of their other companions, and began to back away with him. Each of them, Dottie, Sparky, Chug, Clarice, Skipper, and Dusty were all slowly and quietly approaching from different angles, trying to sneak in and see if they couldn't distract Ripslinger and try to grab Tom, but the Mustang would always spot them before they could get close enough and yank the boy away from them almost possessively.

Terrible sounds were coming from Ripslinger's engine. A sound at which the other planes, both humans, and even the terrestrial vehicles, were greatly unnerved by. It was a sound they were sure that he shouldn't be able to make. Strangled, high-pitched squeaking and grinding in with his regular growling. A deep, latent sound. A desperate sound. A distress sound. Not at all all reflective of the situation or his behavior at the moment.

Tom was honestly doing very well through this, but even as he patted and rubbed the disturbed plane's nose with his other hand, speaking soothingly to him, the exhaustion and stress of fear and pain were taking their toll as he he fought to breathe deeply and keep himself steady. There was nothing more than he himself could do than that at the moment. Besides, if Ripslinger's goal was in fact to kill him than it would have happened within seconds of him grabbing him, but the way the checker-marked racer was behaving was like a dog trying to keep a favored toy from being taken from it, and the thought was not particularly comforting.

And try as they might, his friends just could not get him away. At least not without the use of force, which they had been avoiding due to the possibility of Ripslinger becoming more violent, but at this point there was no other option. If the crazed Mustang were to get it into his head to shake the boy for whatever reason, Tom was as good as done for.

They kept at it, changing their tactics and backing him toward Dusty's hangar now. Skipper split off from the group, covertly slipping away and around the back of it. After getting into position at the side of the hangar, he waited. Then, when they had Ripslinger where they wanted him, tail just a little ways from the open hangar doors, he struck.

Skipper, with a spryness that greatly belied his age and stature, darted out from the side of Dusty's hangar, heaved himself up over the back of the wary P-51, and pinned him down. Despite this sudden, jarring change in events, and although he growled a little more fiercely, Ripslinger did not act out any further, but yet would still not relinquish the boy.

"Hang on, Tom," Dusty was saying as both Dottie and Sparky had come back from the garage with some metal piping in each of their tines. "We're gonna get you out, don't worry."

Tom, now partially laying on the ground, nodded in weariness and strain as he grimaced and adjusted himself when Dottie came over to his side of Ripslinger's mouth.

"Just hold still," she said as both she and Sparky wedged the lengths of pipes between Ripslinger's teeth and began the effort to forcibly pry his jaws open.

And quite an effort it took. As both Dottie and Sparky worked, at first his grip only tightened down more, causing Tom to stifle down a pained yelp as the Mustang's teeth sank further into his flesh. With more urgency and all the strength they had, to the cacophony of desperate pleas and commands of, "Let him go, Rip! Let him go!", Ripslinger's engine had let out a strained, moaning rev as he finally opened his jaws and Tom was dragged clear by Clarice.

"Okay Skipper, help me," Dusty said tensely as the Corsair quickly left his position on top of Ripslinger and joined his younger Companion in pushing him back into Dusty's hangar.

Dusty stayed inside with Ripslinger, slamming the doors shut behind him. Shortly after he'd been shut away there finally came a harsh snarl like they were used to, but then not long after came a horrible, choked roar of anguish.

Skipper turned back from the hangar to assess how Tom was doing after being released. Clarice was beside him, squeezing his shoulder as she leaned in and spoke softly. He had actually been standing when the old Corsair had first looked over, but had soon collapsed, Clarice catching him and gentling his fall as she laid him back on the concrete ground. He was only able to lay there, sobbing for breath and in shock as the human girl pulled her switch blade from her tattered shorts and began to slice through the leg of his jeans to assess his injuries. As she peeled back the deep red, soaked-though fabric from him, the machines had all recoiled in horror. Deep puncture wounds gave them a clear view as to what humans looked like underneath their skin. A view of things that they didn't even have words for in their lexicon.

"Clarice... He... Tom..." Chug struggled to get out, deeply horrified and just as unable to speak as the others.

"It's alright," she said, although her voice shook, "It's not as bad as it could be. Come on, Sparky, help me get him in the truck, we need to get him to Des Moines. It's the most developed human settlement that's close."

Of course "close" was still nearly an hour and a half drive. As they all watched the Chevy pull away toward the edge of town, Dusty had come out of the hangar by himself, at first asking for both Dottie and Skipper, but then checking at the sight of the robin's egg blue classic diving away. Ripslinger only lay awkwardly on the sleeping mat now, listless and almost inert, as if traumatized.


	19. Acid (Ch 19 Intro)

Tom felt and looked like he was sitting next to a museum prop; Ripslinger's huge, lengthy nose lay down by his feet. This would soon become the new routine now that Dusty was away and he had been given charge of him so to speak. The human boy had tried to voice his displeasure at the situation when Dusty had finally broke the news to him, just two days ago, after trying to ignore him all day.

"I don't think I can do this."

But Dusty just smiled that sun-coming-out-from-behind-the-clouds smile of his and said, "Aw, come on, sure you can! I never would have asked if I didn't think you couldn't. It's not like he's going to be much trouble anyway."

Tom gave Dusty a flat stare, and in an even flatter voice he said, "You're joking?"

"No, I'm not. He's changed a lot since... Well since he first came here. I had a nice long talk with him; he's promised me that he'll be on his best behavior while I'm gone. After everything that's happened so far, I'd trust him to watch out for you just as much as I trust you to keep an eye on him."

Tom sighed, and then looked wistfully over at where Chug and Dottie were taking stock of what they needed packed for the trip. He still wasn't sure why he was the one that had to stay behind or why all of them even needed to go. It was just a radio show interview. Hell, he couldn't see why something like that couldn't just be done over the phone either, come to that. Why not have Skipper stay behind and watch Ripslinger? Sure, it wasn't as if the two were best pals or anything, but at least he stood the best chance of overpowering the P-51 if he ended up having an episode, even if there hadn't been one in a long while now. But nope. The person least capable of defending themselves was picked to babysit the Grand Champion racer.

"I can't put off my obligations forever you know; I already ducked out of last year's entire racing season almost. It'll be okay, okay? Besides, the feisty kid I know," and Dusty booped him in the stomach with his nose in an infuriatingly brotherly fashion, "doesn't take crap from anyone. A crabby guy who can't even fly should be a piece of cake!"

 _A_ _ **mentally unstable**_ _crabby guy_ , Tom inwardly groused. Some cake. He wouldn't even have Clarice for any support or guidance either; she had her obligations too, and had moved to New York for a month to act as consultant in a conference regarding human/Vivens machina relations. It had taken him so much time to get used to Dusty and Skipper and the others, and now he had the "new and improved" Ripslinger to contend with, who he was nervous around now. He scratched at his leg where one of many a group of stitches had been taken out just a day ago. It had been an accident, but still that whole incident had completely changed their relationship and his perception of the checker-marked Mustang. Granted, they had all done much to temper him over time after being rescued from the Cutters, but Ripslinger was still highly unpredictable and sensitive and could sometimes be a bit rough in correcting someone who acted the wrong way around him. His triggers were impossible to pinpoint and even easier to ignore sometimes.

Ripslinger was such a stark contrast to what he was used to with Dusty or Skipper, in every way. From his narcissistic arrogance to his garish, eye-straining paint job and everything in between. Tom did have to admit that he was still a beautiful aircraft though. Ripslinger was a pretty thing, and what's worse is that he knew it, although his vanity would probably be more of a problem than it already was if he weren't so damned lazy. For a racing airplane of his caliber, he spent an awful lot of time not moving. How he manages to appear laid-back but still keep up an air of intense predatory vitality was beyond the human's imagination.

Ripslinger hadn't moved or said anything the whole time they were out here as he was settled down next to him. Unlike the others, Ripslinger was usually opposed to being climbed on or even touched all that much, even by other aircraft, preferring to just be near you like he was now with Tom, his landing gear neatly folded up underneath him. It took a very content plane to lay completely down instead of simply resting up on their wheels. Tom supposed he owed him at least that much trust then, that Ripslinger should be that comfortable around him.

The boy turned his head, looking up at the huge plane's face, with his arms folded atop his knees. He looked ill-tempered as always. That haughty disdain just seemed to be his neutral face. Maybe people's faces really do stick like that after long enough, like his mother would always tell him. Tom thought back to when he first discovered how sensitive a plane's propeller blades were. He and Dusty were sat just like he and Ripslinger were now. The human had been petting him and tracing the seams in his paneling until Dusty moved his nose into his hand and it slipped and accidentally brushed one of them. Dusty practically melted into a puddle instantly. Tom thought that maybe it was just Dusty being Dusty; out of everyone he was the most receptive to being touched. Until he had talked to Clarice about it, and she confirmed it by demonstrating on Skipper. And here Tom was thinking that hearing an engine purr was just a figure of speech. He still had to wonder about Ripslinger, though.

Just then, Tom was snapped from his thoughts as a soft hissing emanated from said P-51's engine as he rose from the ground slightly. Tom stayed right where he was, not even blinking as he watched and waited for any more movement from the big plane. There was none, and he relaxed again, going back to his previous thoughts.

He wondered how Ripslinger might like something like that? All other aircraft seemed to greatly relish having their props stroked. He wondered if anyone had ever done anything nice like that for Ripslinger? Without a second thought, Tom reached his hand down to stroke the nearest blade, but before his fingers could reach, Ripslinger sprang around suddenly, and he felt teeth close over his upper arm and shoulder.

It didn't hurt, really, but the plane's hold was firm enough to get Tom's attention and make him freeze. He looked up into his olive-colored eyes, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to read them. Having Ripslinger's full attention on him caused very uncomfortable feelings to bubble up, and the boy shivered as he actually felt his annoyance wash over him. Feeling that he had gotten his point across, Ripslinger released his hold and lowered robotically back down to his previous position.

Tom folded his arms back even tighter around his knees, his eyes not moving from Ripslinger's. His engine started to rumble softly. It was a noise that you felt more than you heard, and yet that seemed to make it sound even louder than it already was.

"Never given..." was all he said, his voice sickeningly sweet.

Day 1. This was going to interesting.


	20. Cat and Mouse

Things had changed for Tom after the incident. All of what he thought he knew in confidence about interacting with Ripslinger had been blown out of the water. Just when the human had thought that there had been a breakthrough, that they had made a connection, Ripslinger had broken all the rules, and nearly two-hundred stitches later, Tom had found himself right back at square one.

But it was worse than that. He had thought himself special; the underlying sense of some sort of magical link that he shared with a plane that no one else could seem to get so close to, only to be proven so jarringly that there was none. His entire world seemed shaken now. Darker. Disenchanted. Even his music brought him less meaning after such a lesson, and was almost even becoming a bore. Ripslinger never even came to watch anymore. And Tom had lost so much of his nerve with such a hard wake-up call. Respectful cautiousness had now been replaced with fearful nervousness. Skipper was right. But so was Dusty.

"Please spend some time with him while we're all gone," Dusty had been saying to a very reluctant Tom before he and the rest of the gang had taken off to Chicago for a radio interview. "He really does feel bad about it you know." The skepticism radiating from the boy was palpable as the racer continued. "Please, Tom, he's very sick. You can't give up on him. It's right now that he needs friends the most. So please don't let him just be by himself the whole time, and _please_ make sure that he eats. Maybe that's when you can take the opportunity to spend some time together." Dusty turned to make for the air strip, but paused, smiling encouragingly. "He eats better if someone sits with him."

And so here they were, Tom doing his due diligence, following Ripslinger from a safe, much wider distance than usual as the P-51 made his way across town to find a good basking spot. The weather was turning cold, quickly. Ripslinger despised cold weather, thriving in the stagnant, stifling heat of LA, and so was spending most of his waking hours lying in the sun before the Iowa winter became so that a cloudless day wouldn't take the bite out of it's bitterness.

Tom was lost in his thoughts, his mind replaying the events of the last few weeks. The attack, although even he wasn't sure that that was the right word for it. All of his efforts to get the plane to accept him, wondering where he'd gone wrong. Why he didn't see it coming. Dusty announcing that he was being called away for that interview, and that Tom would be the one to stay behind and keep an eye on the checker-marked Mustang while all the others were coming with him.

So deep in thought was he that he hadn't noticed that he'd unconsciously quickened his pace, until he saw Ripslinger suddenly start to turn back toward him mid-stride when he felt the boy come into his periphery. The human flinched and stuttered to a stop, and the huge plane immediately turned smoothly back onto his original course with hardly any transition in movement. _Damn..._ Tom fought to steady his breathing as he slowed his pace. He really needed to get that under control. Especially now. He could not afford to have his attention wander like that around a plane like this.

Ripslinger had made such a turn himself since the incident with Tom, becoming touchy and sometimes even aggressive, especially toward Tom. The green and black P-51 looked back out of the corner of his eye to see the boy back at a preferable distance. A slight limp, hardly noticeable to human eyes, did not escape Ripslinger's attention, especially being of fighting stock and therefor naturally predatory in nature. Olive-colored eyes lingered a bit, then turned back forward as he narrowed them, giving a short blow of his engine.

 _Persistent little bastard..._ What was wrong with this kid? He remembered back when he had grabbed and threatened Clarice when he was still held captive all that time ago. He hadn't even hurt her that badly, but she had sure learned her lesson, and to Ripslinger's satisfaction had more or less stayed away from him since then. Tom had gotten much worse, and although it hadn't really been on purpose, you'd still think he would have gotten the hint, too. This kid was seriously going to fuck up his bid for getting out of here on good behavior, and now they were stuck with each other for the next few days. This was all Dusty's doing, Ripslinger was sure of it. Why else would he leave Tom here with him after what happened? He was just determined to keep him here forever, wasn't he? Guess the only thing to do now was keep the human at wing's-length... for the next six months...

Easier said than done, if Dusty had anything to say about it, apparently. The last few weeks they had managed pretty well. They were hardly ever in the same place at the same time, and never were they ever alone with each other anymore by their own choice. In fact Tom would have gladly continued leaving the P-51 to his own devices if he hadn't promised Dusty that he would try to spend time with him just while they were gone. The little racer and his friends had all done so much for him. Besides, he just said to spend time with him. He didn't specifically say he had to talk to or otherwise interact with him.

Tom walked out with Ripslinger until the plane found the next suitable spot to lie around until the sun moved further across the sky, at which point he would get up and move accordingly; the boy had never seen him move quite this much. He sat with him in silence for a bit, then left back for Dottie's hangar. Tom could hardly stand to be around the checker-marked Mustang anymore. Ever since the attack that wasn't really an attack, the little wisps of feelings of frantic hope, indecision, and turmoil were now simply radiating off of Ripslinger. So much so that Tom would start to feel an ache begin to settle in through his body, becoming nauseated and light headed with too much exposure. And there was more now. Underlying urges. A sort of creeping, malevolent curiosity. You know what they say about getting one's first taste of blood.

The thought just seemed to gain more conviction upon nightfall on that first day. Tom was sitting in a chair out in front of Dottie's hangar, boredly riffling through his iPhone when he looked up to see Ripslinger passing by, heading out to his usual spot on the cliff where he liked to stargaze. He noticed Tom, and then slowed, slightly turning toward the human. The green and black plane just stared at him, an odd expression about his features. A sort of assured, patient consideration. And the longer he stared, teal and olive eyes looking straight into each other, the more unsettled Tom became by it. He could have sworn there was even just a ghost of a smile on his face; it was difficult to tell by moonlight alone. The boy fought to hold steady and not betray himself despite wanting to cry inside at just how small and utterly helpless he felt now since Ripslinger had snapped that day and grabbed and held him by the leg. It was power and swiftness like he had never experienced in his life. And now here the blasted plane was, big as a bus and staring at him as if to rub it in that he'd finally gotten to him.

Tom didn't get much sleep that first night. He finally gave it up just when dawn was making its appearance over Propwash Junction. He got up, throwing a heavier jacket on and sliding open the doors to the hangar, peering out into the morning chill. The sun exploding over the horizon bathed the environment in gold. It was so clear and beautiful. And then Tom checked upon looking over at Dusty's hangar, seeing the doors open part-way before a long, green nose poked out. Since when the hell was he ever up this early? The P-51 was almost nothing more than a silhouette in the early morning light as he gazed out across the town, and after a few moments, turned and went back inside. Curious, the human strode across to Dusty's hangar. Perhaps he was hungry already?

The door hadn't been closed all the way, but the boy had only to look through the two foot gap to see Ripslinger in the middle of dragging one of his tractor tires over onto his sleeping mat. As soon as Tom's face appeared, the huge plane hiss-snarled, turning an indignant glare on him. Tom looked into the Mustang's angry, yet soulless eyes, a low growl reverberating through the air in the hangar. And Tom could feel himself begin to shake as he felt it. The feelings of tension. The ripples and quakes of his Soul chasing its tail in distress and helplessness as two different urges raged against each other, the host acting out his fear and frustration in the only way he knew how. Tom slowly shut the door and walked away.

This had to stop, he thought scoldingly to himself during his morning jog through town. What was he getting so worked up about? Yes the feelings were there, but had Ripslinger acted on them? No. Just as Tom was doggedly keeping his promise to Dusty, fighting through his own reservations, by all accounts Ripslinger was keeping his too. Why not give it another chance? And he wasn't going to let Ripslinger have his way by letting him scare him off. Dusty was right. What Ripslinger needed right now was friends, and right now, Tom was all he was gonna get.

Later that afternoon, as Ripslinger leaned heavily against his favorite tree, which was becoming permanently bent under repeated stress of his now nearly five tons of weight, in his favorite spot with his favorite view of the runway, Tom approached with steady, confident purpose. The checker-marked racer saw him coming, and the human watched him start to lower his nose, narrowing his eyes and raising his control surfaces as a familiar rumble began to roll up from his engine. The boy brushed it off, walking right up to the thirty-four foot long plane, stopping just five feet from his nose.

Ripslinger stubbornly refused to budge, but neither did Tom. His engine just thrummed up louder, but to his disgrace, the human still did not back off like he was expecting. In fact he only started to walk forward again for some reason. Ripslinger was now visibly confused, almost seeming at a loss as such behavior that usually made everyone else go away wasn't working. His engine barked out a harsh rev as he made like he was going to charge the boy, but Tom only stopped, not even backing away or looking anything other than completely composed even as the ground shook beneath him at the P-51's impact.

 _That's right; you just try to run me off. Not anymore, pal._ Tom thought as he continued forward again, Ripslinger looking absolutely beside himself as he calmly sat right down beside him. Not knowing what else to do, the green and black plane just simply sat there, looking a little dumbfounded. At first, Tom did nothing either. Just sat and nonchalantly looked out down the runway, and over at the town, like they'd been doing this all their lives. It was when Tom had reached out to pat the side of his nose that Ripslinger had finally had enough, but only reacted so far as to rear back and away from the human. The Mustang spared him a weary glance before making his way back to town, and Tom let him go, getting up to go lean against Ripslinger's tree himself, smiling in relief. Success! _Now who's breaking the rules_? the boy thought smugly.

Tom was in such a good mood for the rest of the day that he felt well enough to work on some music. He'd been working on this anthem for ages. It was getting later into the evening when Dusty had radioed to check in and see how things were going.

"Oh he's fine," Tom was saying into the receiver. "Yeah, he's been eating pretty well. Yep, it's getting pretty chilly over here. How's the weather in Chicago?"

"It is colder than a snowmobile's you-know-what out here," Dusty said as a blizzard raged outside the hotel hangar.

"What? It snows here too."

"No, you don't understand, this is like, in your face cold," Dusty maintained. "I'll be glad to be back home. I'll never complain about how cold it is ever again, unless I'm like in Antarctica or something."

The next day just happened to turn up overcast and quite cold. Threatening to snow but just not quite getting there. And despite being in a sour mood due to the weather, Ripslinger did not become stand-offish or object to Tom spending most of the day with him. They still did not speak to one another, just taking in and studying various cues and signals when the other wasn't looking. As they sat together, finishing up lunch, Ripslinger was oddly calm, almost his normal self. Normal for him at least as he looked around at all the other planes and other vehicles going about their business and listening to the noises of the town. His engine gave a soft, idle chuff, and Tom smiled. It was still the most positive noise he'd ever heard the plane make. He got the Mustang's attention before tossing what was left of the bagel he'd been eating. Tom didn't even flinch when the concussion from his teeth snapping together as he caught it popped through his rib cage.

Ripslinger had even allowed Tom to come out with him during his nightly stargazing, but the human had quickly noticed that it wasn't exactly stargazing. Tom sat, leaning back on the palms of his hands to the right and slightly behind the checker-marked P-51. He stared at Ripslinger's back, the big plane with his nose pointed upward, almost perfectly still.

 _What are you looking at?_ the boy thought as the green and black mustang continued to stare upward, almost looking more like he were anxiously searching for something than just idly observing the constellations. But what? Tom watched as Ripslinger dropped his nose back down level, staring straight ahead, thinking maybe. Then he slowly tilted his nose further down, looking down over the edge of the cliff, expression turning softly bitter. Tom's brows quirked a bit in concern and sympathy even though he didn't know what it was for, and turned his own eyes skyward.

For all intents and purposes, this was the exact same sky that he was used to back in the world he had come from. The same sky that he had looked upon that night a year ago. He had been fighting with his parents again. Typical stupid shit; they just never seemed to really see eye to eye. He had ran outside to escape the tense air in his house, and soon found himself in the garage. He climbed into his father's classic Mustang convertible, falling asleep. And when he woke, still in the front seat, everything was gone. His parents, his house, his neighborhood. He was in a completely different place, but yet he was still in the same place. During the year that he'd spent wandering, working himself from place to place, he'd learned that he wasn't the only human to come here, and there were many others that had arrived many, many years before he had.

So then what of his parents? Where were they? He had neither seen nor heard from them the entire time he'd been here. Were they searching for him too? Or were they those that had ended up coming over way before him? What if they had grown old and died already then? What if they'd never arrived at all? Tom had lost so much. His family, his friends, all of his future plans had been blown into oblivion along with his original reality. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook it off. Then he looked back over at Ripslinger to find the plane staring at him. And the young human nearly checked; it was so odd. It was the softest expression that Tom had ever seen from the grand champion racer. Soft, but yet still as unreadable as ever. They both continued to stare at one another, and then slowly turned their eyes skyward once more.

After they'd both had enough of the stars and past what-ifs, Ripslinger had followed Tom back to Dottie's hangar, where the human was currently at his desk on his laptop, flipping through and editing some recordings he'd made playing his instruments. The plane lay calmly some ways behind him, watching. Tom almost jumped when he spoke.

"What were you thinking about earlier?" Ripslinger asked at length.

 _He_ wanted to know? But Tom Told him. About the kind of life he'd had before coming to this side of the sky. What he had been expecting of it before being transported. His aimless wandering, working and playing his way from town to city.

"My parents; I don't know where they are," Tom was saying. "I don't know if they're out there somewhere looking for me, I don't even know whether they still live or not."

"Hmm," was as far as Ripslinger acknowledged his plight, and the human was actually getting quite annoyed at his similar, one-word responses and seemingly indifferent attitude toward what he had asked to hear. Visibly irked, Tom continued.

"And that's the part that really bother's me the most. Not knowing. And probably never finding out."

"That's sad," Ripslinger commented, not exactly sounding as sincere as Tom would have liked. "Happens to the best of us, you know?"

That did it.

"And what would you know about loss, huh?" Tom snapped at the plane. "You've had people kissing your _ass_ and handing everything to you since you were born! How the hell would you know what that possibly feels like in your self-centered, egotistical, god-forsaken -"

Tom, too caught up to hear the low, building rumble of Ripslinger's engine during his tirade, was cut off as a rage-filled scream blended and transitioned into a roar that thundered in his ears, and soon all he could hear was a high-pitched ringing as he dove to the side to avoid the P-51's charge. The desk and everything on it exploded as Ripslinger's jaws met it instead.

Tom barely had time to think, _Fuck! Fuck! Weeks of work!_ before he was under attack again. The human's hearing began to slowly come back as he dodged the second charge and stayed by the enraged airplane's side, moving with him as Ripslinger turned his way and that to try to get to him. Ducking under the Mustang's belly, he darted out between his landing gear and bolted for the Fill N Fly, hearing the snarling of Ripslinger's engine almost right on his neck. Tom could only think of the lengths and lengths of heavy chain bundled up in the rafters of the garage. It would slow the plane down, at the least.

 _He's going to be on me in about two seconds!_ he shrieked wildly in his mind, running with everything he had in him. Part of the chain was hanging down from the ceiling, and Tom leapt with all his might and grabbed it, swinging in mid-air as he used his whole body weight to try to pull it down. And just as Ripslinger's jaws opened wide before making a final lunge, which would have surely been successful, he was halted jarringly and knocked to the ground by the tremendous weight of the many lengths of chain crashing down on him. It didn't keep him down for long, and in no time he was back up, growling and starting to shrug the chains off of him, but the very instant that the clinking and rattling registered in his hearing, he froze, eyes growing wide as a look of horror and recollection crossed his face.

Then another roar exploded from Ripslinger's engine. Only this time it was a sound of abject panic and terror. He struggled, twisting and turning and bucking, trying to rid himself of the chains, but a lot of them were still tangled up and attached to the rafters, and it only resulted in getting himself more ensnared the more effort he put into it. Tom was honestly surprised that he hadn't brought down the whole garage, or at least woken up the whole town. But that surprise was quickly replaced with vengeful anger.

 _I've got you now, motherfucker!_ Tom ducked by the struggling P-51 and grabbed a crowbar from the work bench. _Let's see how_ _ **you**_ _like it!_ The boy moved in front of Ripslinger, raising the crowbar, preparing to strike and cause as much damage as possible, the hook pointing downward. But the plane was oblivious to him and his intentions. His mind was gone. He was in some other place as he continued his pitiful roars and cries of anguish, tears beginning to stream down his fuselage.

Tom began to feel his prior fury start to ebb, his expression weakening even as he brandished the crowbar a little higher, trying to steel himself back up again. By now, Ripslinger was almost completely immobile, still struggling feebly as he wept, his engine letting out one last short, rather weak, squeaking cry. The crowbar started to shake in Tom's grip as his face finally fell into questioning sympathy. Then it scrunched back up as he angrily threw it away from him, flinging it through the air and hearing it go pinging away off the asphalt.

He kicked at the ground, both angry at his soft lack of conviction and angry of his own assumptive insensitivity. He was wrong. He was dead wrong, illiciting that kind of response, and felt horrible. What kind of person was he that he had never identified the signs and only realized now after such a poignant response to the chains covering him that something very bad had happened to this plane at some point?

After some thought, scanning around the garage, he found a heavy pair of bolt cutters, and took them and started nipping his way through the chains to free the trembling Mustang. At first, Ripslinger didn't move, his awareness still elsewhere, but once most of the main lengths of chain that were binding him were cut away, he took up struggling again. Tom backed away as he shook and tossed the remaining chains from his body with a harsh, anxious flutter of his engine before bolting back for Dusty's hangar. Tom followed, quietly standing in the door frame, the green and black racer having shoveled all the sheets and covers and cushions over him, shaking violently as quiet sobs wracked through his frame. The boy walked forward, this time falling back to his previous tactics of slow and steady in this instance, almost seeming zen-like as he dropped all accounts of his own feelings as he focused hard. Ripslinger needed calm and confidence right now.

"Rip?"

No response.

"Ripslinger."

Gently, Tom tugged the blankets from the shivering plane, uncovering his face. As his eyes opened, Ripslinger sprang back, rearing up and snarling in fear as if he didn't recognize the human standing in front of him.

"No, wait," Tom boldly jumped up without a second thought, grabbing one of his propeller blades and firmly pulling the huge plane's nose back down. "It's me," he said, not letting go of the blade while bringing his other hand up and placing it against the side of Ripslinger's nose, rubbing gently.

The contact and gentle, but assured, tug on a part of him that was sensitive seemed to break him of whatever spell he was still under, and the checker-marked racer looked around in a confused manner.

"Tom..." But he only seemed to become more agitated. "Dusty..." he fretted, "Where's Dusty?"

"Dusty's in Chicago right now," Tom spoke evenly, staring Ripslinger innocuously straight in the eyes. "He won't be back until tomorrow."

Scanning the hangar again, the huge plane broke back down in tears, squeaking in his throat and wriggling a bit as he felt his plating crawl with the lingering feeling of the chains, eyes squeezed shut. His Soul rippled, skipped, and shrank in on itself, and Tom was breaking into a cold sweat at the feeling of such raw, unfiltered emotions crashing against him like the ocean against the land. But Tom fought through it, embracing the huge plane around his nose as best as he could, moving his hand down to softly scratch Ripslinger's chin.

"I'm sorry, Ripslinger..."

The words were bigger than just for what he had said earlier that had upset him so. It was an all-encompassing apology. Sorry for snapping at him. Sorry for the chains. Sorry for whatever it was that had happened to make this plane the way he was. And Tom felt Ripslinger lift the front of his body off the sleeping mat, but not to get away from him. To allow him better access to keep scratching his chin.

Later, Tom sat quietly with his legs drawn up in front of him, his back against Ripslinger's right flank behind his wing. The P-51 had long since stopped crying, but was still hyperventilating a bit, eyes wild and barely blinking as he stared straight ahead.

"Tom?"

The boy turned and looked up at the plane at the sound of his voice, which was thin and drawn.

"Please don't fall asleep."

"Okay. I'll stay awake."

"Don't let me fall asleep. Please don't let me fall asleep."

Tom still hadn't taken his gaze from Ripslinger's face, studying it with soft teal eyes.

"Okay," he said softy.

And now this was it. This was really it. But Tom wasn't going to celebrate. Not even on the inside. He was past that now. It was more than admiration, wanting to be this plane's friend. Wanting Ripslinger to accept him. In all his years struggling, coming up with ever imaginative ways to find and keep his focus on any one thing and not let his mind wander in two-hundred different directions, he knew now that he did in fact have it in him. This plane gave it to him. More than it looked like he was actually taking it away. It was Tom's turn now. To be brave. To be confident. To really show his maturity up and give it all back.


	21. The Stand (Ch 20 Intro)

Tom woke suddenly, in pitch darkness, to realize that he was alone on the sleeping mat in Dusty's hangar. He looked around, and spotted Ripslinger creeping warily across the floor toward the open hangar doors. The boy sat up, and was about to ask him what he was doing when something in the P-51's movement and breathing made him hold himself motionless, tense and waiting. A moment later Tom became aware of some strange aura. A reek of indecipherable intention and emotion. The human sat as still as a spider, letting the fluid ribbons of sentiment flow around him, almost able to visualize the way they would bend and caress around everything in the environment, himself included, thinning before they would finally break apart and flow on their way. He struggled to gleen any information he could from them, as his mind felt scrambled like radio interference. They were not angry feelings, nor exactly dangerous feelings, but none the less insidious.

Were they coming from Ripslinger? No. This was something different. Unmistakably the aura of an aircraft's Soul being thrown out, seeking and calling out to others of its kind, but still unlike anything Tom had ever felt from Dusty, or Skipper, or even Ripslinger. And he was afraid. He saw nothing out in the darkness past the doors of the hangar, but Ripslinger stood there between the boy and the outside, eyes sharp and focused, completely lucid with all signs of illness gone.

"You're not supposed to be here," he finally spoke, his voice strong and commanding. "If you try to get past me, I'll kill you."

Tom squinted, trying desperately to see who or what Ripslinger was addressing. For all intents and purposes, there was nothing out there, but the young human dared not move. Whatever it was, it was obviously a foe, judging by the green and black plane's behavior, and suddenly the Mustang let out a harsh, threatening rev that then thrummed back up into a roar, and Tom watched him leap out into the night. At that point, the he jumped up from his position, running to the doorframe and watching as Ripslinger grappled with the darkness, biting and ripping into it.

Tom's brain was having a very difficult time in comprehending what he was looking at, that odd, alien aura seeming to jumble his perceptions all out of order. Just a massive shape in the darkness, much, much larger than Ripslinger, moving and dodging with an unnatural grace. Sharp fins and wingtips. Impossible to tell if it were coming or going, as it's dull, black skin reflected no light. Then he yelled in shock and horror as a large gash suddenly opened up across Ripslinger's back and left side, checking the checker-marked plane hard as he reared up to try to deal another blow and sending him crashing to the ground, writhing in pain.

"Leave!" Ripslinger shouted, and the word was half spoken, half light, movement, and aura in Tom's mind as a hot heavy pulse moved through him, and then everything went still.

The dark creature leaned down on it's landing gear to where the P-51 lay, breathing hard, and appeared to stroke his cheek gently with the needle-point of it's nose, before abruptly swinging it's long, thin body around, and in a blast of hellfire and shrieking engines, disappeared into the black of night.

The danger gone, Tom approached Ripslinger cautiously. His frame shook as hydraulic fluid ran in rivulets down the side of his body, staining the ground underneath him. The human observed the wound as he drew near, being unable to make heads or tails of what caused it just by looking. He put a soft hand against the side of Ripslinger's nose.

"What was that?" the boy could not help asking the injured aircraft.

Ripslinger blinked and tried to move, his frame shifting slowly on the ground as he tried to push himself up onto his landing gear.

"I'm never... getting back..." he managed before making a strangled noise in his throat and shuddering in pain.

` "Back where?" Tom asked, patting him.

He could see the plane's sanity slipping again. Could see him falling back into the haze. Ripslinger's eyes searched futilely for something that was not there.

"Home..." the P-51 got out.

"You can't go home? Why? What does that mean?" Tom pressed, trying to hold Ripslinger's gaze. "Ripslinger?"

But it was too late; the racer ceased moving, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if considering things in another world.


	22. The Monster

Repairing the gash in Ripslinger's back had proved to be a tense affair. For whatever reason, try as Tom might, Dottie or any of the others could not be reached, and so Tom had to make do with being directed by a thankfully lucid Ripslinger. It was better than nothing. Ripslinger had spent enough time around mechanics, and the both of them had watched Dottie do the same type of patching and sautering on Dusty at one time or another. Only neither of them had any idea of how to use sedatives or even local anesthetics. They tried, but it seemed to be taking a lot more than they had expected would work, and after so much given with seemingly no effect, Tom became worried that the P-51 would be at risk for overdosing, so they went ahead without them. The human had been sweating, and not altogether from the heat of the torch. As patient and as cooperative as Ripslinger appeared to be as his body shook with each breath, barely able to speak through the pain, Tom could feel well enough that it was taking everything the checker-marked plane had not to turn and maul him.

By morning, Propwash Junction had been blessed with a clear, sunny day in November after several of a thick blanket of overcast. Dusty and the others had come back from Chicago, things had returned to a degree of normalcy, and Ripslinger seemed oddly in much better spirits, even better than before they had all left. There was some concern over the fresh cauterizing marks over Ripslinger's back, but they all seemed to accept their story that they'd gone hiking and Ripslinger had misjudged his proximity through a thicker swath of trees.

Tom sat cross-legged in Dusty's hangar on the orange and white plane's sleeping mat, said plane dozing behind him as he scratched and scribbled a composition that had just popped into his head to arrange properly on his laptop later. Dusty cracked an eye open, looking down at what the boy was doing before smiling playfully and giving his back a nudge with the fore of his wing. Tom, having known the former-crop duster long enough to know what he was getting at, smiled back, reaching over and tickling him in the place on his belly where his wings met, the little racer wiggling with glee.

Ripslinger watched from his spot outside in the sun, even though it barely cast any warmth this time of year. He smiled softly. There had been a marked change in him ever since that final night that he and Tom had been left alone together. His mood was much less sour than it usually was. Chipper even. The others found it quite unusual but hesitantly pleasant as he openly conversed with them. Dusty couldn't be happier. Although ignorant of the exact details, it seemed as though he should have left the human and plane alone with each other a long time ago. He was even behaving perfectly civil toward Clarice now, no lewd or spiteful jokes or anything.

Upon the sun suddenly vanishing into dark clouds, Ripslinger got up from his spot and moved back into the hangar, expecting rain. He clambered up onto his sleeping mat, slowly lowering down and starting to get settled when he heard Tom call out.

"Hey, Dusty, look!"

Both Dusty and Ripslinger lifted their noses toward the open doors of the hangar, where a soft, light snow began to fall.

"Oh, wow!" Dusty exclaimed.

The green and black plane watched as they both ran out of the hangar and stared up at the sky at the first snowfall of the season. Ripslinger settled in the rest of the way, grumbling internally. He wanted no part of this. He was staying right here. But he was mesmerized by the sight of all these soft little white things falling so steadily and silently. He'd seen snow, sure. He'd seen it dozens of times on his tours and cross-country rallies. But he and all the other racers always flew above the clouds; he had never actually witnessed the snow falling from the sky.

He got up, and slowly poked his nose out of doors to look warily upward, watching the snowflakes tumbling down. As soon as a few landed on him he darted backwards into the hangar, trying in vain to shake them off. He watched the others walking around and marveling in it. The snowfall was starting to get pretty heavy, and already visibility was beginning to narrow. Dusty stared around in wonder, just the same as he had every year he'd been living whenever the first snow would fall on Propwash Junction, and then Ripslinger tilted a bit as the little plane gathered himself up, and then pushed himself up into a little jump, trying to catch a few of the flakes in his mouth.

The others, Dottie, Chug, Sparky, and Skipper, had gathered and were watching in amusement as Dusty made another awkward little hop, the snowflakes disappearing into nothing the instant they hit his tongue. He did this two more times, Ripslinger looking on in barely hooded bewilderment, before Tom decided to join in, jumping up to try to catch his own snowflakes. This caused a sort of chain-reaction among the group, as Chug, then Dottie and Sparky, enthusiastically, albeit with no more grace than Dusty, started up jumping and hopping. Then Skipper, causing an almighty shake with his nearly six tons of bulk coming back down on the ground as he tried his luck. Before Ripslinger even knew it, he had ventured out from the shelter of the hanger, and hesitantly, attempted a little hop of his own, and it would not be his last. The atmosphere was truly infectious with everyone hopping and jumping and leaping into the air, the thickness of the falling snow giving the environment a slow, washed out effect and making them look like ghosts bobbing and floating, laughing as the ground shook beneath them in a mini-earthquake, Ripslinger jumping with more and more vigor until all were well and tired out.

By morning, the sun was shining once more, and what snow had settled on the ground had melted, the temperature still not being quite low enough for it to stick. Dusty, to his surprise, had awoken to Ripslinger already awake and licking him tenderly over his back and canopy. The smaller plane smiled, giving a small chuckle at the slightly uncharacteristic but pleasant gesture, nuzzling up against the P-51 before getting off of the sleeping mat. He stretched, working out the lovely ache in his frame from what had been quite a night before. Ripslinger surprised him again by following him out into the morning chill, and so Dusty decided to simply take a stroll around town with him in favor of his usual morning flight. Ripslinger was not a morning person and never was he up before the younger plane. They were making their way back around the hangars, talking about everything that had happened since the Mustang was brought to Propwash Junction, paying special attention to all of his improvements.

"So what do you think now, Rip?" Dusty was saying, "Your year is going to be up pretty soon. The farm-life isn't too bad, is it?"

"It has it's perks," the green and black plane replied, casting a suggestive glance back at the younger racer. "Yes. I suppose I've done pretty well for myself here, all things considered. And yet... To think... how easy things used to be before. So much simpler."

"What? Rip?"

Ripslinger suddenly stopped. He was a little ways ahead of him, facing forward. He let out a soft, wistful chuckle.

"I'm sorry, Dusty. I can't go back. Just one bad day... That's all it would take. I don't have a choice. There's only one way that I'm ever going to get out of here..." and at that, he finally turned toward Dusty, a disturbing smile on his face, "...and you're going to help me..."

And the little airplane's face fell in fear and confusion as he watched what light that had been slowly returning to the checker-marked P-51's eyes over the course of his stay with them drain out of them completely as he spoke those last words, before he lunged forward, jaws agape.

Skipper was slowly waking up, sitting outside his hangar and appreciating the early morning fall sun. He looked over in satisfaction at the town as it got it's day started. But then suddenly, with a shock of surprise, he cast aside his tranquility and became fully alert, for over a short distance away, on the other side of the hangars, came the ugly sounds of planes fighting. Low-pitched snarling and high squealing and screeching of engines. A savage, bitter encounter, full of hatred, and desperation too. He turned and sped off in the direction of the noise. Coming out from among the hangars, he saw at once what was going on, immediately beset upon by the sight of Ripslinger and Dusty, rearing up into the crooks of each others' wings. They bit and snapped angrily at whatever they could get a hold of, and naturally, being so much smaller, Dusty was quickly becoming overwhelmed, despite obviously having a good deal of fight in him. By the time that Skipper had made his appearance, Ripslinger had pushed Dusty over and had wrestled him to the ground. Once pinned, Dusty spotted Skipper, and the distress in his expression heightened at the look of murder on the Corsair's face.

"Skipper! No! He's trying to– Skipper, wait!" he shouted desperately.

But his Bonded Companion was deaf to his pleading, his engine growling as he gathered himself up to charge.

"Skipper, stop!"

There was a deafening thunder as both war birds' engines roared in fury before they each charged for one another, but at the last moment, Ripslinger turned, exposing his side to the Corsair.

"DON'T SKIPPER!"

But Skipper did not deviate his course, slamming into the Mustang's side and biting him over the back right behind his canopy, driving him roughly into the ground. And at first, Ripslinger appeared to just lay there, making no attempt to defend himself, but after a few moments, Skipper beginning to jerk in a side-to-side motion, he suddenly surged up from the asphalt. Skipper doggedly hung on, but Ripslinger was eventually able to shake him off, and the Corsair was barely able to get clear as he aimed a savage bite right for his face. Skipper rammed him again, trying to get under him and flip the green and black plane onto his back, but Ripslinger could not be upturned, and could move much quicker on the ground than the older plane could. It wasn't long before Ripslinger, dodging another charge, span around, heaving himself up over the Navy plane's back and sinking his teeth in where Skipper had tried to land a lethal blow earlier, and the noise he made, defiant screams of agony melding in with the roaring of his engine, froze all the fluids in Dusty's lines.

Dusty leaped onto Ripslinger, biting his face and wings as hard as he could, tugging and yanking with all his might to pull the P-51 off of his mentor, but he seemed oblivious to the little plane's efforts. Normally the two of them would have no problem subduing the grand champion racer, but with Ripslinger now at full weight and strength, it was looking to be an impossible endeavor.

At last, Skipper was able to dislodge himself from the grip of Ripslinger's jaws. He turned slightly, dealing two good slaps with his broad wing before he felt the third pass through the air as Ripslinger darted back out of the way, and the old war bird collapsed, gasping for breath in pain and exhaustion as hydraulic fluid ran all down his back and sides. Before Ripslinger could take advantage and finish the job, he was yanked back again by Dusty, and he rounded on him, putting the orange and white plane on the defensive. By now, the others had been alerted to what was happening and were all standing helplessly as Dusty was once again pinned. Ripslinger had his jaws gripped in his back, but the smaller aircraft was not to be counted out as he'd sunk his teeth into Ripslinger's right landing gear, and he was not letting go. Chug revved his engine, preparing to charge, but was stopped as Dusty released his hold, yelling almost shrilly.

"Chug, don't you dare!"

He didn't want any of the others to get hurt. Not on his account. This was all his fault. Every single incident that had happened, when it came right down to it, was all his doing. All for thinking that this crazed abomination was ever capable of redemption. He felt Ripslinger release him, but he didn't let him go, moving up to settle his weight over him.

"Yes, that's it," the checker-marked Mustang sighed pleasantly, "Let's all just take a breather for a sec, shall we?"

"Ripslinger! You treacherous..." Dusty was almost too angry to speak. "Why? First you act like you're going to force Skipper and I to kill you, then you turn on us and try to kill us instead! After all we've done for you? Why are you doing this?"

"Oh, what a cliché question," Ripslinger scoffed, "Well you know what they say, Crophopper. The end justifies the means." Dusty stared back at him, eyelids turned down and mouth a thin line in incredulous vexation as the larger plane spoke. "That's why there's no problem with hating. Or killing. Or anything, really. They're all just means. Nothing else. I just want to be free. Free from all of it. That's not much is it? I'm broken Dusty..." Ripslinger said, smiling sadly, "Can't you see now? I'll never be able to lead a normal life. Think of it this way, you wouldn't just be doing me a favor. Think of all the hurt you'll prevent."

At this point he calmly shifted his weight off of Dusty, the little racer hobbling back up and backing away from him, breathing hard but steadily as he and Ripslinger stared each other down. The P-51 had that sinister smirk on his face that Dusty had come to know and hate early on, waiting for his response. He always seemed to have some ulterior motive in that slimy mind of his. Apart from being put of out of his misery, what else was he really trying to gain from this? He took a breath.

"I'm not going to kill you. Nor is Skipper or any of us," he looked at the green and black racer, his demeanor solid and measured. "But don't think this is over. Once we've all been looked after, we'll figure out what's to be done with you now."

Ripslinger's expression did not waver, and he was oddly very cooperative and docile while Dottie went about fixing and patching up the various bite wounds and other damage that Dusty and Skipper had inflicted. It was a very tense and nerve-wracking time. The omnipresent tension had it's hooks in everyone. Not a word was said and they avoided making any excessive or sudden movements as Skipper and then Dusty had taken their turn under the little blue forklift's tines. The unspoken question hovering over them all now was who was going snap first; Dusty, or Ripslinger?

A bitterly cold wind was picking up as Dusty sat still for Dottie, face still tweaked a bit in sullen anger as he thought about what was to be done. He felt so lost. Everything had been going so well, and now he was sucker-punched. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Dottie suddenly speak up out of nowhere.

"I feel sorry for Ripslinger," she said at length.

Dusty was quiet for a time, demeanor softening a bit as he stared ahead.

"...Me too..." he said softly. "I'm really sorry. I wasn't really thinking when I decided to make Ripslinger stay here. I wasn't thinking about what it would do to us. Ripslinger was right. He was always right. He'd been warning me and telling me all this whole time, and I never listened. I didn't want to listen..."

"Look, Dusty..." Dottie began as she put the final touches on the wound in his back. "It took a lot of courage and compassion to do what you tried to do with Ripslinger. To work with someone who obviously has some very deep, underlying issues, although we didn't really have any idea of how deep when we started. It was all just too much, too soon, for him to be able to handle and properly process with the state that his mind is in. It's not like you meant for any of this to happen." Dusty was silent as he looked out at the ever darkening sky as the wind whipped at the trees. "Well. Whatever you end up doing. We'll all be right behind you like we've always been."

After being released, the others were outside the garage waiting for him. Ripslinger was not among them. They all just spent the rest of the day sort of milling around aimlessly. They were watching the fields down below them get tilled down for the winter when they were all taken unawares by a sudden, very heavy snowstorm. The sun setting had reduced visibility down to nothing. Not that any of them could keep their eyes open for any reasonable amount of time with the sting of the icy snow flying into their faces. They all struggled to stay together, but the powerful gusts of wind and snowblindness kept tripping them up, as if determined to force them to separate and wander off lost to die alone in the elements.

And this was what Tom thought was going to become of him. He had gotten separated from the others, and for all he knew was probably going in the wrong direction. He tried calling out to them, but couldn't even hear his own voice over the howling of the winds. It was only out of pure luck that his questing hands had finally come across someone's tail-fin, and he held on for all he was worth, allowing himself to be led wherever, knowing that in all likelihood they were lost too, but at least he wasn't alone anymore. A few minutes later, even though it had felt like an eternity, the winds around them had stopped and the snow and slush under them turned to concrete. They had made it to a hangar.

There they stood in darkness for some time, Tom coughing hoarsely at the freezing sleet that had burned his nose and throat as he breathed while they were still outside. He shook the snow off his clothes, and the rattling and shuffling from his company told him that they were doing the same. Tom walked, still coughing here and there, toward the sound, and came into contact with someone's flank.

"Are you okay?" Tom asked, "Who is this? Is it you Dusty?"

"I'm not Dusty," Ripslinger's voice echoed in the empty darkness, chilling Tom to his core. "I doubt that you're thrilled to be trapped in here with a monster, but spare me the hysterics please."

"I wasn't going to," Tom replied, sounding somewhat hurt as he recovered himself and got himself into a calm, focused mindset that he used to interact with Ripslinger. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"... Thank you..." Tom attempted, "I probably would have gotten lost and died out there if you hadn't led me here."

Ripslinger didn't answer him. The human tensed up slightly as he heard him move, shuffling and scraping as if he were looking for something. The movements stopped and suddenly light flooded the room. Tom hissed and squeezed his eyes shut. As they adjusted he saw that they were in the big hangar on the other side of the runway. The one that Ripslinger was held captive in when he had first been rescued and brought to Propwash Junction all that time ago. The cage had been dismantled, the barred walls lying in a pile in the corner, but the sleeping mat and sheets and covers were still there. Ripslinger gave Tom an unreadable look before he moved over and laid down on it, his front lifted and looking at the boy expectantly.

"Do you think the others found shelter alright too?" Tom said as he calmly walked over to the opposite wall and sat down against it. "Is there any way we can go and find out for sure?"

"By all means, if you want to freeze to death, than go on ahead," Ripslinger said coldly.

He was right, Tom had to admit. It wasn't as if he were dressed for the beach, but to go out in a blizzard where you can't tell which way is up would be risking death. But still... the boy was uncomfortable being trapped here with the P-51 after what had happened earlier. The calm, measured state of being he'd developed during his time spent alone with Ripslinger was quickly being eroded away as he began to realize exactly how small he was.

"How long do you think the storm will last?" Tom asked, still trying to keep his head in the game after a few minutes of tense silence.

"How am I supposed to know?" Ripslinger snapped at him, Tom managing to stifle down a jump, "It could last anywhere from an hour to all night and into the next day. We shouldn't even be out here anyway!"

"I'm sorry..." Tom said quietly.

"Sorry? And why are you sorry?" the Mustang sneered. "It's _my_ fault that we're out here. _My_ fault that I saved those two idiots from being pulled in by the Cutters! It's all my fuckin' fault! But I'm supposed to just take it and live out the rest of my life in this god-forsaken backwater hell-hole just to tickle Dust's fancy. I'm just supposed to die here, but I'm not dying for you fools!"

Ripslinger had stood up in the middle of his tirade, his voice taking on a roaring pitch, and Tom was beginning to become truly frightened, getting to his own feet.

"Please calm down Ripslinger..." Tom appeased, his tone even despite his fear. "I know you saved them, and I'm sure they're truly grateful for it. I wish it hadn't ended with you getting captured too. I'm sorry."

He had to keep his head. It could mean life or death. He couldn't lose it, especially when the huge plane had come right up to him, sticking his nose almost right in his face.

"And now that the deal is broken..." he whispered darkly, "Dusty's going to try and lock me up again. Try. I will not be trapped and helpless again. Never."

"Rip, you have to calm down," Tom pressed, "I'm sure if you two talk, you can work things out. I'm sorry that you got hurt and I'm sorry for-"

"Stop apologizing!" Ripslinger shouted, and with a sharp, sideways snap of his body, he struck the boy, knocking him to the ground.

Scared and in pain, Tom quickly picked himself up and tried to run, but Ripslinger caught him by his left arm and held it in his mouth.

"Let go!" Tom demanded, getting very close to panic although his expression was angry, but he didn't dare try to struggle and risk actual injury to his arm, "Let go of me!"

But Ripslinger easily dragged him back to the wall, pinning the human against it with his nose cone.

"Why are you trying to run, Tom?" Ripslinger asked, his tone sadistic, the boy's fear fueling his rage, "I thought you cared about me. That you wanted to see me get better. That's what you keep telling me. What's with the change of heart?"

"Rip, you're hurting me! Please stop this!" Tom commanded, kicking at him desperately to no effect, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're one of them. You say you care, but look at you now. You'd kill me if you had the means. You were _all_ on the verge of turning on me earlier today. Emotional ties mean nothing in the face of death. I knew you were all alike! How could I ever let myself believe otherwise? I was so _stupid_..."

"Ripslinger, stop it! Please let me go!"

"If I let you go you'll only run outside where you'll freeze to death. You're only here because you thought I was Dusty. Why run to him? Why not stay here with me?" Ripslinger asked, looking hurt as he pressed into Tom to make him answer, but the boy was in too much of a panic to speak now. He kicked and clawed at the checker-marked plane, but he refused to release him. "You would actually choose death over staying with me? What's wrong with me? Why not love me too?"

"You're forcing this Rip... This isn't you, I know it isn't," Tom pleaded, staring with desperate but determined eyes straight into the cold, olive-colored eyes of the P-51, "I know you're scared, but-"

Pressing forward harder, Ripslinger cut the human off, crushing him into the wall behind him.

"Do I look scared to you?" he asked, his tone and expression icy, all mean-spirited humor gone. "Because it looks to me like you're the frightened one. As well you should be. I'm going to kill you... I'm going to get out of here... and no one is is going to stand in my way..."

Just before Tom blacked out, Ripslinger grabbed him by the arm again and threw him away from himself where he skidded and crumpled to the ground. Tom lay there, shaking and crying. He heard Ripslinger's engine come roaring to life, revving up menacingly. So this was how it was going to end... After everything he'd been through... Killed by the very plane that they had all tried so hard to help. And yet, for all his cruelty and evidence that he may be beyond any help, the human still could not bring himself to hate him. Despite what Ripslinger said, he did deeply care for him.

The boy looked up to see the Mustang's spinning propeller blades leveled at him and the stare of the plane behind them, so cold and lifeless that he couldn't even see his own reflection in his eyes. Tom figured that he'd see that cliched life flashing before his eyes phenomenon, or be offering a silent farewell to all the friends that he only got to spend a precious short time with, but no. All he saw was Ripslinger standing before him, massive and imposing, and the only thing that came to mind was a soft, sorrowful, _why?_ He closed his eyes, wondering if he would feel anything, and waited... And waited... Slowly, the human looked up at the green and black plane, wondering why he hadn't struck. He was still pointed at him, poised, but he was shaking.

That look... That look that the human had just given him... Ripslinger had seen it before. That single, despairing, incredulous, terrified look that he had just seen in Tom's eyes was not the first time he'd ever encountered such a look. He had seen it many, many years ago, on himself.

For a moment some old, flickering, here-and-gone feeling stirred in Ripslinger's memory; the sense of some easy-going, kindly time, long gone, forgotten, and lost. A vague melody floated through his mind, only he couldn't remember the words or who had taught them to him. And then suddenly he reared back, gasping as his eyes went wide with horror and anguish as his senses were overcome by flames licking all up along his body and the sound of screaming, and the hot, choking acridity of smoke and the stench of burning metal and wires.

The grand champion racer saw himself there, hunkered down into his landing gear and cowering. He had been so much smaller back then, and happy and innocent. All he himself remembered thinking was why? Why was this happening? What had he done wrong? What could he have done to make things turn out differently? That was the look that he had, that Tom was wearing now. And that was only the beginning of the perpetual nightmare that his life would become in the years following. He would go on to have that look cross his face a few more times before finally losing himself completely. How... How could he? How could he ever, ever, _ever_ be the source of causing someone so much pain and misery as to make that exact expression?

 _Oh god... What have I done?_

"Tom?" Ripslinger's voice squeaked out like a puppy's whimper, his propellers slowly rotating to a stop. He moved closer to the boy, but he cringed away. "Please don't..." the checker-marked plane begged, dropping down in his landing gear, his flaps lowering. Startled by the reaction and not knowing what Ripslinger might do next, Tom only jerked further away. "I'm not going to... I didn't mean..." He faltered, rendered speechless by everything washing over him. The realization. All the decisions he'd made... Some of them very bad... What he'd allowed himself to become. He had become the very same monsters that had ripped his life away, robbed him of everything he held dear, and put him on the path of damnation that he'd thought naively would get it all back. "I'm _sorry_!" he sobbed out, backing into the wall and shrinking in on himself. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he cried out desperately, over and over, like some repentant mantra that would turn back time if he believed enough.

"...Ripslinger?" Tom called to him softly, but the concern in his voice only made the P-51 more upset, tears spilling forth in earnest.

He had hurt him. Threatened to kill him. And still he cared. He didn't deserve such a beautiful thing. Such compassion. It was wasted on a soulless beast like himself.

"What have I done?!" he wailed, feeling himself dying inside as a sharp, horrid ache billowed up in the heart of him, clutching at him.

"Ripslinger..." and he felt someone's soft, warm hands gently take him by his forward prop and pull his nose into their shoulder. "Shhh..." Tom tried to sooth him, rubbing the side of his nose.

"I'm so sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't want to be... I was just trying to... I was afraid... A coward... I'm a monster."

"No. No you're not..." Tom began, but Ripslinger cut him off.

"I am! I'm a... W-why are you doing this?" The Mustang pushed the boy away from him. "Hate me... You should h-hate me! Please hate me!" he cried out, unable to fight the growing hysterics brought on by the horrors of his life. Of what he had done. He remembered every act of indifference or cruelty that he had ever done or ordered all the way up to that moment and it tore at him. "Oh god, it _huuurrts_!"

The sharp ache had soon turned into a white-hot point of pain that flared up in his core. Then, slowly, the point began to move, a searing agony, gradually, relentlessly traveling and spreading through him, taking the P-51's breath away even as he cried out. Tom witnessed as Ripslinger stumbled forward, shaking and wobbling in his landing gear, his expression desperate as a viscous, shiny black liquid began pouring and leaking from his mouth like a faucet. He gagged, gasping and panting, and Tom began to slowly back away as he felt himself assaulted by outside emotions as he never had before. Only there was something extra with it this time. Something that was vaguely familiar. Soft, rustling, unintelligible whispers that quickly grew in volume, becoming a frantic, frightened whining and crying.

The boy let out a retching cry as he clutched either side of his head, his back bumping against the wall before he slid down it, curling into a fetal position as he felt his skull might split. Then the screams started. High, shrill, disembodied screams and wails of abject anguish, and Tom remembered where he'd experienced this horror before as his entire body, all the way down to his bones, was wracked with pain. Only this time, instead of singing, Ripslinger was screaming.

The human fought hard, breathing deeply and evenly, every ounce of him determined to keep himself from fainting as the green and black plane thrashed and writhed on the other side of the room. He shouted, twisting and tossing in his agony, sending inky black goo splattering to the ground in thin, wispy threads and droplets. His eyes were shut tight, rear teeth visualized as his voice blended in with the tortured roaring of his engine. But then, letting out one last, drawn out, agonized scream, his eyes opened, and their panicked depths shone with such brightness, life, and vibrancy that they almost appeared to glow, and Tom looked on in shocked astonishment from his incapacitated position on the ground, hands still grasping at his head.

Then everything suddenly died down. The haunting, disjointed screaming and wailing quieted back down into that eerie whining, and Ripslinger stood, low and shaking on his landing gear as his breaths came in harsh, keening pants. Tom was breathing hard himself as his body tried to recover after the pressure of being bombarded with such raw emotion, having nothing to act as a receptacle to filter and process it, was lifted somewhat. The boy's hands released his head, his fingers remaining to hover next to either temple as his eyes distantly crawled up to the unstable P-51. He had to go to him. Despite the danger, he had to keep Ripslinger's mind here and now. It was obvious that something crucial had happened. Traumatic, yes, but all the same crucial. Momentous. But Tom had the distinct feeling that Ripslinger's awareness was currently hanging by a thread; he could not allow him to slip back away.

"Ahh... Oh, god... it hurts so bad..." the green and black plane whimpered. "Why does it hurt?"

"Shh, shhh..." Tom soothed, trembling as his legs felt like lead as he stood and began to cautiously make his way across the room to Ripslinger. "It's okay..."

"Make it stop. Make it go away. I remember... I remember it all..."

"I'm so sorry, Ripslinger... I'm so sorry for you. Shh... I know it hurts..."

"Please make it stop..."

"I want to help you, Rip," Tom persisted, having made his way halfway across the space between them, "We all do. You are our friend, and we love you. _I_ love you. Let us help you, please..."

"No..." Ripslinger said thickly, raising his nose at an odd angle and beginning to back away toward his wall with wild and wary eyes locked on Tom. "S-stay away... I don't deserve it... I don't deserve love..."

"Please don't talk like that Rip," Tom urged, stopping in his progress but spreading his hands wide, imploringly, "It'll be okay..."  
"You don't understand... It can never be okay... I remember... I can never..."

Ripslinger's tail hit the wall behind him, and he hunkered down into his landing gear, the light that had returned to his eyes dimming a bit as they went out of focus. He became inert then, almost as if paralyzed, but the faint little voices in the air continued their fretful, sorrowful cries and whimpers.

"Rip?"

The checker-marked racer didn't respond. Didn't blink his empty eyes. Tom made to continue forward, but was stopped again, watching the drool and black sludge as it dripped from Ripslinger's mouth, slicked across his teeth as he began speaking.

"Why? ...Why was I the one left alone? ...Why couldn't I have died too? …I never wanted to hurt anyone... But I had to... She was all I had left... and they took her from me..."

A sick shudder went through Tom's body, afraid of what he might hear next, feeling the ache and nausea return as a fresh wave of sentiment washed over him, the whining starting to pitch up in volume again as Ripslinger suddenly stood up from his position, looking utterly deranged as his self-awareness continued to slip.

"That's when I had to kill them... while they were dragging her away... I ripped into their bodies and tore them to pieces... right in front of her... She saw everything... She cried... Told me to stop... But they made me do it..."

Tom was losing him. Ripslinger's eyes had taken on a wild, desperate expression as he continued to speak, and he seemed to grow less and less conscious of the human's presence and continually shifted his body to and fro, as if trying to listen to some sound that was only audible to himself. The boy's heart was breaking over the green and black plane's words, not knowing how much more he'd be able to stand. He had to put a stop to this. He had to get to Ripslinger. If he could just touch him, yank him back into reality as he had those few nights ago. He just _had_ to.

"That was the last thing she saw of me... She never would have wanted that... but I did it anyway... and then... later... I did it again... and again..." and at this, Ripslinger began to cry, tears streaming from his eyes, "I can't go back now... I never meant for any of it... I did what I had to... They made me do it... I had to survive... I had to find her... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Isabelle... They made me do it! I didn't want to hurt anyone... But they were gonna kill me! I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to become this!" and then his engine fired up in a whirlwind in all his mania and despair, before screaming, "THEY MADE ME DO IT!"

The feeling of his propeller blades striking something is what jarred him out of his dysphoric state, eyes going wide as his spinning blades came to a dead stop, a bright, red liquid dripping off the ends of them.

Tom was standing right before his nose, slightly to the left, and human and plane just stared at one another in shock for a long, heart-breaking moment before Tom slowly, fearfully looked down at his right side.

His arm was mangled almost beyond recognition, and four great, deep gashes were sliced down his side, warm blood rapidly blooming and soaking into his clothes. Then their eyes met again before Tom collapsed, falling forward onto Ripslinger's nose as the plane caught him, lowering himself and the boy carefully the rest of the way to the ground, olive-colored eyes wide in near-hysteria and horror.

Tom looked up at him, too terrified himself to even cry as he clutched at the P-51's prop blades, holding on to him for all he was worth. Ripslinger struggled to speak, to apologize, to say anything, feeling utterly helpless. Trapped in the hangar with a blizzard raging outside, there was nothing that he could do for the human except to try and comfort him as best he could. Tom soon slipped into unconsciousness, and all the tears and tortured, strangled cries that had been withheld in the effort to keep the boy calm finally escaped, swallowed up in the darkness of the gales.


	23. Zero Hour

By the time the storm had settled down, it was late into the night. Ripslinger still lay miserably on the floor of his old hangar, his expression wretched as he stared down his nose where Tom was still slumped over it. The boy still held onto the plane's prop blades in his unconsciousness. Somehow, he was still alive, but Ripslinger could tell that time was quickly running out for him. The human's blood had dripped and ran down his nose where he lay on him, covering it and pooling on the floor around them, and however hard he labored to breathe, Tom just could not seem to get enough oxygen, sporadically taking these huge, painful gulps of air like a fish out of water.

Ripslinger just didn't know what to do. He didn't know whether he should stay here with him in his last moments, or go out and find the others. But he knew that the latter option may very well be the last thing he would ever do. Time would be wasted, and he would have to sit and watch this boy die. Olive-colored eyes narrowed. No. _I did this_ , he thought. Whatever Dusty's and the others' judgments may be, Ripslinger resolved, he would accept it quietly. But that could wait. He had to try to set this right.

Slowly and gently, he carefully tilted and laid Tom down on the floor. The checker-marked plane then pulled the sheets from the sleeping mat, holding them down with a wheel and biting and tearing them into a smaller piece of fabric. He spread it out across the hangar floor, and then went back to the human's side, but then he froze. He was at a loss for how to move him. He was worried that he may cause further damage to Tom's already seriously injured body. Pushing or pulling would jostle the boy too much. It would be best to pick him up in his mouth, but Ripslinger was afraid. He himself could admit that he had no ability to make his jaws go soft, precisely adjusting the pressure like parent aircraft do when picking up and moving their newborn babies. His jaws had only ever been used to cause harm. He fretted, shifting on his landing gear in indecision as he blew out a noise from his engine that was halfway between a snarl and a harsh flutter. He was running out of TIME! He had to _try_!

The huge P-51 knelt down almost to his belly, resting his chin on the floor at Tom's right side. He took stock of the damage done. The gashes in the human's side were eerily clean, opening the rich, red meat underneath the skin and broken ribs to the outside, and his arm was a complete mess, only really held together by links of skin and sinew, the bones shattered and exposed. Ripslinger winced, then opened his mouth, careful to the point of near-clumsiness as he scooped the boy up onto his lower jaw. Using his enormous tongue to move the boy more securely into his mouth, he then cradled Tom with it, and just sort of left his mouth open as he carried the human, not wanting to risk closing his teeth. Tom's blood dripped and ran onto Ripslinger's tongue and down his chin, making the Mustang fight hard against his gagging as his tanks threatened to purge themselves.

He lay him down in the middle of the patch of sheets that he'd torn away, and as he turned to start gathering in the corners, he heard Tom stir. The green and black plane immediately dropped the fabric in his mouth and went back to him. The human was still again, and Ripslinger stared anxiously.

"Mmph." Tom's teeth bite together as he pants through his nose, making an agonized, strangled noise in his throat. "Rip… Ripslinger…" An onslaught of tears began to stream down the boy's face. "I… I-it… It hur…"

"Shhh…" the checker-marked racer tried to sooth, touching his nose gently to the side of Tom's face to silence him. "You must. Stay. Strong," he breathed out, trying to gulp down his guilt and panic.

The human reached up with his good arm and grasped with as much strength as he could muster onto one of the plane's prop blades, whimpering out his sobs and fears, and Ripslinger nuzzled his nose into Tom's chest. His engine growled through his almost asthmatic breathing. He longed to be naive. To believe that everything will be fine. He longed to be able to hope so boundlessly, a hope that he was once not so short of. He pined for the days that he believed in everything and knew nothing at all. Then he set his jaw, olive-colored eyes burning with passion.

"You will not die. Do you hear me?" Ripslinger commanded as he began to feel that wet pressure behind his eyes again as he snarled his hatred for this twisted fate. "…You will not die."

He left Tom to go back to gathering up the corners of the sheet toward the middle. He picked them all up, biting and hooking them back into the sharper teeth in the back of his jaws to make sure that they wouldn't slip, and gently lifted the bundle off the floor. The P-51 felt Tom's weight become cradled into it, and then began moving with him.

He opened the doors to the hangar, and found everything wet, pitch black but for the streetlamps, and silent. The snowstorm had turned to a mixed, drizzly rain, and most of the snow on the ground had already melted. Well, that was one thing that was working in their favor. Without a second thought, he immediately taxied for the runway, the airport being closed down for the night, and started his engine. Ripslinger began his take off. The green and black plane gained speed, and despite feeling oddly quite whole this time, that familiar, leftover apprehension still lingered, but then he narrowed his eyes in determination.

"Come on, Rip, do something good!" he scoldingly urged himself through gritted teeth around his precious cargo.

Ripslinger's tail gear lifted from the ground and retracted, and, nearly leaping up into it, his front landing gear left the ground and he was airborne. Turning east, he kept his altitude low, eyes sharp and keyed into anything that looked habituated by humans. He needed to get Tom to a hospital, fast. He'd hoped that he would come across something soon. He was already panting hard through his intakes after only twenty minutes; he'd never felt so out of shape in his whole life! Then, gradually, he began to spot odd, tiny little hangars. Houses. The Mustang descended further as the houses grew more numerous and began to turn to proper buildings. He scanned the growing city in front of him, looking hard for some symbol that might indicate a hospital, then breathed out a sigh of relief when it became apparent that that iconic, red cross was the same across both cultures.

Ripslinger began his landing, picking a rather wide empty street. Thankfully, there were few humans and cars, living or otherwise, on the roads at this time of night. As soon as he was down he made a dash in the direction that he saw the hospital in, having had to land quite a ways from it.

 _He's fine, he's not gonna die_ , was the mantra repeating wildly in his head, _He's fine, he's fine, he's_ _ **fine**_ _! He_ _ **will**_ _be_ _ **fine**_ _! Fuck where am I going? Where the_ _ **fuck**_ _am I going?!_

Ripslinger's eyes are too raw to see anything, blinded by panic, freezing rain, and growing rage. All he could breathe in was the stench of Tom's blood that had now soaked into the sheets the boy was curled up in. The P-51 wanted to butcher something. Anything, everything. He wanted to slash someone's eyes out, rip off their extremities, crack their bodies in half, tear their organs out with his own teeth. He wanted to see someone else's blood in place of Tom's. He would take anyone else's life for his!

"God _damn_ it!"

Ripslinger could hardly breathe through his mania. He was seeing red, sobbing for breath, and everything was blurring into hideous, dark apparitions as rumbling, gurgling growls and hissing echoed in his hearing.

"R-Rip-slinger…"

And that brings the checker-marked plane back down to the world he was slowly leaving. He couldn't lose himself. Tom needed him. Only he couldn't seem to get his voice to work to sooth the human with a lie that he was going to be okay, or manage to keep his own conscious stable enough to even sanitize himself. He could only so much as bark a short, harsh "Quiet!" through his teeth as he gripped the corners of the sheets in them. _Don't talk; breath. Don't waste what you have left._

Meanwhile, Ripslinger wasn't watching where he was going. He hadn't given a damn until he found himself suddenly blinded by a searing, growing explosion of light. _No…_ By the time his eyes adjusted to the extreme luminescence of the high-beams, a large, faceless SUV could be seen barreling down the street right for them. … _No!_ The P-51's darker coloring doing no favors for the human behind the wheel's attention, the vehicle crashed right into Ripslinger's flank. _T-Tom! Fuck!_

The force of the impact knocked him aside where he went slamming into the ground and the SUV spinning off into a light pole. For a full ten seconds Ripslinger struggled to get to his landing gear in a state of near-paralysis that delayed and rattled his nerves, hallucinating the sounds of bells and seeing stars. Closing his eyes as he tried to shake off his wooziness, he suddenly went rigid, wide-eyed as he realized that the sheets were no longer in his mouth. He found the crumpled bundle lying several feet away. Lifting away the bloodied fabric, green and black plane recoiled at the sight before him. _Oh, god…_ His flesh was turning white. He… He couldn't even… His frame shaking, Ripslinger swallowed back the vomit straining his throat, slowly leaning down to touch the dying human with his nose cone, as if one touch from him would somehow renew his health. His warmth; it was fading. His heartbeat; it was so weak. But the boy's fingers, blood-stained, were reaching up again, touching and smearing down the side of his nose. Ripslinger couldn't ask for more of a sign of life! _Fuck, get moving, Ripslinger!_ He squeezed his eyes shut, clearing his mind as he gathered Tom back up in the sheets and heaved him up in the air again.

Once he'd arrived at the city's house of recovery, lit up like a beacon, he went crashing through the large, grandiose glass doors and into the lobby, spraying glass everywhere. As Ripslinger stood there, wet with rain and still drenched in the remnants of Tom's blood which dripped onto the immaculate white floor, the humans inside shrieked. They shrieked! They didn't even help him! He rushed up and dropped Tom right on the front counter where the receptionists sat and sobbed in terror at his mutilated body, scattering pen-holders and clip-boards all over. Ripslinger spoke to one of them, her horrified face speckled in red droplets.

"Help him…" Ripslinger panted through his teeth, "NOW!"

The poor human girl was frozen in fear, unable to move or speak when Ripslinger thrust his nose into her face.

"Are you blind, bitch?! Do you see him?! I said LOOK AT HIM! Do you see him?!"

He gripped her by her collar in his teeth and yanked her forward, forcing her to see this poor child dying.

"Yes, yes, YES!" she went on sobbing.

Everyone's staring. Everyone's gasping. But no one is helping him! The P-51 turns to them all, the wounded, the sick, and screams in hysterics.

"Help him, god damn you! Get someone and fucking HELP HIM!"

Suddenly, Ripslinger felt a pepper of hot, stinging pin pricks rat-tat-tatting into his plating. An instant later the report of over a dozen small caliber gunshots registered in his hearing. He turned around, moving toward the direction of the assault, seeing what looked like the entire police force gathered outside the hospital behind black and white, faceless vehicles, their guns still drawn and ready. More were arriving, wearing heavier armor and carrying even heavier weapons. Blue and red lights flashing and reflecting off of his paint, the Mustang let out an almighty roar of unhinged fury in the face of it all, the officers raising their guns again in preparation.

Meanwhile, back in Propwash Junction, Dusty and the others had regrouped, and were instantly thrown into anxiety and worry at the realization that Tom and Ripslinger were not among them. They broke off into pairs, searching everywhere. Dusty and Skipper eventually found themselves headed toward the old hangar that Ripslinger was once kept in. The hangar doors were slightly ajar. Dusty nosed his way in, Skipper coming in right after him. The orange and white racer and his older Bonded Companion were immediately struck by an odd scent in the air, like nothing they'd ever smelled. It was a wet, sickly, slightly metallic smell. Something about it made their plating crawl and their frames tremble in innate fear and alertness. The hangar was empty. Skipper studied the ripped and torn sheets from the sleeping mat when Dusty had called out to him.

"Skipper," the smaller plane's voice shook, afraid of what the answer might be as he looked down at sickening pools of a rich, red liquid, congealing and almost turning black in the places where it was clotting,"...what is that?"

"Oh dear lord…" the old Corsair breathed.

Further inspection had revealed a trail of more little drips and drops of blood, leading out of the hangar and continuing on toward the main runway. Dusty lead the way, having gone to Des Moines many times to visit Clarice at her home there. Chug followed with Dottie down below, all hoping against all hope that their assumptions were right.

The hospital was not difficult to find. When they all arrived, the scene down below was still quite chaotic. Numerous cop cars remained in the area, people bustling around taking stock of the damage done to the entrance of the hospital and the lobby. It certainly looked as if Ripslinger may have been there, but neither he nor Tom were anywhere to be seen. When the group of machines had first approached, they were not surprisingly met with hostility.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" Dusty placated, "We're looking for a big, green and black airplane; a P-51 Racing Mustang."

"He was here," an older looking officer spoke, signaling for the others to lower their weapons.

"He was?" Dusty asked anxiously, "Do you know where he is now? We're hoping that he may have had a boy with him; a human boy. He's sixteen years old, he has kind of curly, short brown hair, greenish blue eyes-"

"The boy has been taken to the ICU," the police chief interrupted, "and the plane is missing after a short engagement where he was fired upon multiple times."

"Oh my…" Dusty said weakly, starting to feel faint as his fears just went from bad to worse.

"I'm assuming that you know the plane and this boy. Do you know who his legal guardians are and how we can contact them?"

"Well, he doesn't-" Dusty started, but then Dottie suddenly spoke up in front of him.

"We are. Is there a doctor we can speak to?"

The officer looked at them all in a somewhat scrutinizing manner, but turned and went into the hospital, ducking under the yellow lines of police tape. Several minutes later, he came back out, a man wearing a white coat over solid blue clothes at his heels. He didn't bat an eyelash at the mixed group of Viven's machina in front of him calling themselves a human boy's guardians, and introduced himself as if he were talking to any human family.

"Hi, my name is Dr. Pelsue, I'm the trauma surgeon on your boy's case. Does he have a name?"

"Of course he has a name," Dottie took over, being as good as a doctor herself. "His name is Thomas. What is his current status?"

"We have already done what work we could get away with stopping any further hemorrhage and have started on a transfusion," Dr. Pelsue began, "But his condition is still quite critical."

Dottie's brow furrowed somewhat. The others were completely in the dark, but she had the innate feeling that she knew what the terms the doctor was using meant. However, it was Dusty that spoke next.

"'Get away with'?" he quoted.

"Thomas has lost over seventy percent of his total blood volume," explained Dr. Pelsue, "That, plus the fact that his lung function is compromised is forcing us to delay the surgery that is going to save his life. We're in a very delicate balancing act here."

Everyone breathed out, confused and anxious as they looked at one another, not fully comprehending what they were being told, but still having the sense that it was very bad.

"You'll have to excuse us," Skipper apologized when no one else spoke up, "We don't understand you; we aren't familiar with how humans work on the inside. The situation is very grave, that much is obvious, and I know that it isn't exactly possible for us to go and see him, but is there anyway that we can see what happened? I know that for our kind, it's pretty common for us to make photo records of some of the more unusual or important cases that come into our shops and hospitals."

"Yes, you would be right," the doctor confirmed, "It is the same with our own medical records. We have taken pictures in this case, as an attack on a human by any living machine is thankfully unusual but also important academically to our field of work. I must warn you though, these are very graphic."

Chug reversed, being sensitive to such things and knowing that he wouldn't be able to stomach it as Dr. Pelsue pulled out something very similar to a skyPad, only much smaller, tapping it a few times before turning it around for the others to see. With dread, the green fuel truck watched as everyone drew back, their reactions to the macabre images immediate and visceral. Dottie had gasped, unable to stifle down a horrified squeal as a simultaneous "Oh god…" was heard from Skipper, the Corsair wincing in revulsion and sorrow. Dusty had abruptly turned, speeding a little ways away before heaving up all what was in his tanks. The trauma surgeon's brow pinched together softly in sympathy and consideration at the strong display of emotion, furthering his already favorable perception of such beings.

"The boy's prognosis is very guarded, but we are doing, and will continue to do, everything in our power for him. You have my word," Dr. Pelsue said. "The plane that did this; do you know him? It's my understanding that he's still at large."

"Don't worry about him…" Dusty suddenly spoke, not turning around as he shuddered out his pants, all consideration for Ripslinger's condition gone from his mind, "We'll take care of it."

XXxx

Ripslinger sat hiding in the dark of an old warehouse, shaking from pain and a severe build-up of nitrous oxide that had flooded his system in the extreme stress of the last several hours. The sun was just starting to come up now. Bullet holes of various sizes marred most of his frame as his breaths trembled in and out of him. Despite most of Tom's blood being washed away from the rain, it was all he could smell. It was all he thought he would ever smell. Like the morbid scent had just burned itself permanently into his senses. And what had become of Tom? Had someone actually gotten to him and whisked him away to get the urgent care that he needed, or had the boy died right there on the counter in the midst of his blind raging?

In the next moment, his thoughts were interrupted as a tremendous weight slammed against his side and knocked him hard into the ground. He didn't attempt to get to his landing gear to see who it was; they didn't speak at first, but from the contact could fairly accurately guess. Then a moment later the sound of a familiar engine roared up in fury right next to the little window behind his left eye.

"Give me one reason not to!" Dusty demanded, his voice thick and harsh with grief and rage.

"…I can't," was Ripslinger's numb response. "You have every right to kill me and I won't try to fight you. But… if it means anything… I'm sorry…" the green and black plane concluded softly, and waited.

"You…" Dusty's voice shook with his frame, barely keeping control as he powered back down. "Why? Why did you do it? He only ever wanted to help you."

"Is he…" Ripslinger tentatively asked.

"No. But he needs surgery urgently, and he's in such critical condition that it would stand just as much of a chance of killing him."

"I… I didn't mean to…" Ripslinger's eyes widened in shock and despair, "It was an accident…"

" _Don't_ give me _that!"_ Dusty spat, "I _saw_ what you did to him! The bruises… One of his lungs is collapsed, they might have to amputate his arm! There is no possible way that it was an accident!"

Ripslinger could not say anything to his defense. Because it was true. He had meant to hurt him… but that was before… but it none of it meant anything now. It was too little, too late.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" he asked after a tense silence.

Dusty stared at him, shaking his front desolately.

"I hate you… I really do… I've tried my hardest with you. Sacrificed so much. Given so much. And it was all for nothing… I would gladly kill you right here and now… but I will not lower myself to your level. So get out of here. Just fly back home. I don't care what kind of deal we had before, I want you to leave…" Dusty turned to the side, ending with cold finality, "and I don't ever want to see you again…"

Ripslinger watched Dusty leave. Abandoned and broken, he sought out the nearest, adequate flat space and flew away. Away from the people that, despite all his efforts, he'd grown to care for, and yet had hurt the worst. Even if Tom survived, without his arm he would likely never play another instrument again. He may as well have killed him. Once again, he'd gotten off with less than he'd deserved, and he hated himself for it. It was just one more thing to hate himself for.

Hours later, to the shocked expressions of the RPX employees at headquarters, Ripslinger came bursting through the front doors. He went rushing through the lobby wordlessly, continuing up the elevators to his penthouse on the top floor, where he kicked out the two guards that usually kept continuous vigil before locking himself in. The tabloids and paparazzi were already gathering in droves outside the building as he collapsed onto his four-poster custom sleeping mat, almost instantly falling into a deep sleep as tears streamed down his tormented face.


	24. Goodbye Stranger (Explicit Content)

Tom awoke in complete darkness, naked, and all alone. There was nothing distinguishable in this place. He felt nothing, no breeze, no temperature. He heard nothing. He looked down to see the floor as black as everything else, like he was floating, though he could sense for certain his feet on solid ground. Then he looked over to his right. His arm and most of his side were enshrouded in the same darkness that purveyed throughout the void. He moved his arm, testingly, and while he surely could feel his arm obeying him, he could not bring it out of the darkness, however he moved. He tried reaching into the black with his other hand to try and touch or grab it, and despite being aware of its proximity in space, his left arm only stood out brightly against the shadows, groping at nothing.

Tom lowered his arm back down, making a fist as stared about into the void anxiously. Was this where he was supposed to be? Strange sounds began to make themselves heard at that moment, only the human could not associate them with anything. It could have only been one sound for all the boy knew; it seemed to come from all directions at once, echoing infinitely throughout the darkness. And every time a new note floated through his perception, Tom had an odd, latent overarching understanding of it. It was as if he were hearing emotions. Curiosity. Then recognition. Yearning. Frustration. Confusion. Weird. It was almost like...

 _ **"Seer."**_

The human jumped. That time, when the sound hit him, although he still heard it as noise, inexplicably, the word had appeared in his consciousness. That had certainly never happened before, and as he listened, green, like the color of soft moss lit by the sunlight, filled his mind's eye for a moment, giving the boy a strange sense of peace and tranquility in this dark place. It engulfed him, filled his perception, and then, somewhere, a door opened.

 _ **"Knower."**_

His senses were suddenly assaulted by a robust, lively pulsing, and he could not rightly tell whether the sound was the rumbling of an engine or the beating of several hearts as a brilliant, blue-white light and fire, a blinding radiance, came roaring into Tom's sight and into his mind, ferocious, cleansing, and pure. And beyond it, beyond time, beyond all that he was and all that he knew, something was shifting in the brightness.

 _ **"Listener. You know me, don't you?"**_

The tone was very clear. Strong, rich, and yet quietly self assured as the words ran across the human's mind like the ticker at the bottom of a newscast. The boy shook his head no, quietly, looking confused, then his eyes widened.

"Yes. Yes, I know you."

 _ **"Please."**_

"Yes, I'm listening."

 _ **"You have removed us from unending purgatory. But we wish to continue on. To transcend. You will return."**_

"No! I have so many questions! Do we get to connect again? How can I reach you?"

 _ **"You cannot."**_

And that stopped the human in his tracks.

"What?"

 _ **"We cannot connect."**_

"I don't understand."

 _ **"You know us, hear us, sense us, yet we get no such information from you. It is unrecognizable to us. Your soul is not the same."**_

"So then... those times when we really seemed to understand each other..."

 _ **"We felt nothing."**_

Tom stared ahead into the white-hot brilliance all around him, letting the words sink in in acceptance, but then his resolve broke, and he bowed his head in sorrow as he began to weep silently. The thing moving in the light had stilled for the moment, radiating a soft, gentle warmth, like a sympathetic smile.

 _ **"Do not despair. Do not think we would throw such a precious thing away. Our kind are denied by so many, but you know us. In every way you knew how, you've helped us, and the generations that shall follow. There is a place for you, Knower, and a time for you to go there. It is not certain when, but it is not now. We are not saved yet. We are still at risk of once again falling beyond oblivion. Promise that you will see us into eternity, and we will not leave you to face your fate alone. When all is finished, you belong with us."**_

The boy looked up now, his face wet with tears, but with a certain resoluteness etched into it.

"I have already promised."

XXxx

The sun had risen about two hours ago. Ripslinger lay awake in the shadows of his penthouse near the top of RPX headquarters. He hadn't once put his nose outside of it the entire time he was back. He had only relented letting his team of mechanics come in to repair whatever damages had been done from being fired upon by the human police force before immediately ordering everyone back out again. He listened to the sounds of the world continuing to turn outside his door and windows. None of all this luxury meant anything anymore. He had nothing now. He was nothing. All he had left was time. Plenty of time to sit and think and ponder over his countless sins.

The threat of Tom dying had temporary put his grief and horror for his own life on hold, so he hadn't taken any action against himself during that time. And as much as he was sorely tempted to simply take a nose-dive off of his balcony in the last several days, the overwhelming need to apologize had held him back, even though he knew that whatever apologies that he offered would never come close to covering it. But he had no idea what he would say. Even if he spent every waking moment from now until the day he died, he could never set the scales even again, and Dusty had made it very clear that he would not be welcomed back. He was lost. He didn't know what to do. Was there anything he could do?

The P-51 sighed, lowering the front of his body to his sleeping mat and laying down fully. Whatever misery bestowed upon him now he would accept quietly. As downcast as his current state was, all of this was, in a strange way, liberating. The serenity was a welcome relief to the raging tempest that his life had been. He felt whole. Complete. More settled than he could ever remember. Before he could think any further into it, he was interrupted by a knock on his door. Even though his tail was to the door, he knew that it was Ned. It was amazing just how much clearer and stronger he was able to sense them now. It accounted for half of the reason that he had been keeping himself in solitude; the feeling was a little too much for him at the moment.

"Boss?" the green-fronted Zivko ventured tentatively. "There's someone here to see you."

Before Ripslinger could ask who it was, or tell his smaller cohort to send them away, his plating prickled in shock and surprise as he recognized the signature. He slowly turned, mouth slightly open in disbelief as Dusty came rolling slowly but purposefully into the room.

"Leave us," the checker-marked Mustang commanded softly, Ned sliding the doors closed behind the orange and white racer.

They stared at one another in silence before Ripslinger could take no more, asking the question that had been plaguing his mind for almost three weeks.

"Is Tom alright?"

"He's alive," was Dusty's flat answer, his expression unreadable as the subtle light in the room glinted off of his lacquer and eyes.

For the first time in days, the green and black plane allowed himself a small sigh of relief. That was all he needed to know, but now that Dusty was here there was something he needed to do while he had the chance, no matter how difficult it might be.

"I... I suppose you want to know what happened?"

"Something like that."

"I'll tell you, but, please, you have to let me finish, alright?" The smaller racer was silent, and Ripslinger took it on faith that it was an agreement and continued. "I hadn't intended on getting stuck with him. Actually I had been trying to go off on my own, but he clung to me and I was too preoccupied with getting inside to try to shake him off. I was... angry. Angry at what happened. Angry at you. Angry at myself. Angry at everything and I wanted to take it out on someone and there he was. I don't remember how it started... I just remember I couldn't control myself..." The P-51 recounted, cringing at the memory.

He'd expected Dusty to fall into that fury that he had seen on him during their last meeting, but he just silently stood there in the dim lighting, expression unchanged.

"...And?" Dusty pressed a moment later after Ripslinger had been quiet for too long.

"I... hurt him. I scared him. But when he still tried to talk to me I couldn't take it anymore and... and I was going to kill him... but I couldn't. It was the way he looked at me. It was just like... It made me remember... Made me realize..."

Ripslinger trailed off, finding it increasingly difficult to speak. But Dusty still remained silent. Why wasn't he saying anything, the Mustang wondered? Why was he just standing there? He struggled to calm himself and regain control of his voice. He needed to say this, even if it killed him.

"It... made me realize that I was wrong. That I... What I... It was wrong. Everything I had ever done was wrong. You have no idea... how that felt... How it still feels. I couldn't take it. And then... And then... The next thing I knew... I didn't mean it! I didn't! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for all the awful things I've done to you and made you do... I... I just wanted to tell you that. That I am sorry. You don't have to say anything. If you still want me to stay away then I will... If you still want to kill me, I understand and accept it," Ripslinger finished miserably, and waited.

"You would accept it if I tried to kill you?" Dusty finally spoke.

"Yes..." Ripslinger replied, and then tensed, waiting for it to come.

"Why?" Dusty asked him, and it caught the larger plane off-guard.

"Huh?"

"Why would you accept me killing you?"

"Because... I deserve it..."

"Why would you think I would even want to?"

"What?" was Ripslinger's confused response, then Dusty calmly approached him non-threateningly, nose at the relaxed angle.

"Tom told us everything when we took him home from the hospital. I came out here because I wanted to hear it from your own mouth. I thought you were lost, but you had it in you this whole time, something no one thought possible, myself included recently. And you think I want to kill you?" asked Dusty, all traces of ice in his tone gone. "And I don't want you to stay away either. I've just gotten a glimpse of the new you, and I plan on making it stay that way."

Ripslinger couldn't stand it any longer. He rushed forward, taking the smaller plane in a hard embrace and crying for all the years lost, and right with him, Dusty did the same. At last, when the tears slowed, the little airplane asked him one more question.

"Would you like to come back and see Tom?"

XXxx

The first seventy-two hours of Tom being home from the hospital had been very rough. Thankfully, with the amount of pain killers that he'd been prescribed he was mostly out of it through most of it. Some of the first words to come out of his mouth were to ask if Ripslinger was alright. This had confused Dusty and the rest of the group. Tom was afraid that they may have attacked him, or that he had harmed himself. To try and calm the boy down, Dusty had quickly assured him that no one had touched him, he had just been driven off, but that hadn't calmed Tom down in the slightest, and the human began to cry. Before he could get too upset, he told them all what had happened.

The narration had taken quite some time. The painkillers made him woozy and he had to take breaks often, and he had to halt Dusty and Skipper's tempers before they got too out of hand once or twice, but as he continued they soon didn't need to be told to listen. They all listened silently, astounded, and when the boy finished, he fell asleep, horribly exhausted.

Dusty had left as soon as Tom became more stable to go and speak to Ripslinger himself, with the intention of bringing him back. When he returned the others were calm toward the P-51, even though there was still some hidden resentment in their eyes. He avoided eye contact with any of them. It strongly reminded Dusty of the time that he had first let him out of confinement with them and Ripslinger had joined them for breakfast. Only this time around, instead of ignoring them, the green and black plane seemed anxious, if not afraid. And he looked rough too. Hell, they all did. The last few weeks had not been kind to any of them. Dusty had stood back and watched the scene unfold. It almost felt as if Ripslinger were stuck to the spot until something happened. Despite the fact that they were all in full agreement about letting the Mustang come back, he was still pretty anxious about what might happen.

"Um... I..." Ripslinger hesitantly began before faltering.

He looked pleadingly to Dusty for help, and the little racer thought over his many tactics that he had stored up for breaking a mood, but they all paled in comparison to the pressure and tenseness of the situation. And then suddenly Skipper moved forward away from them all toward Ripslinger. Dusty sadly noted that the checker-marked racer cringed slightly when the Corsair stopped in front of him. Ripslinger's gaze slowly moved back up to see the heavier plane leaning down, offering his nose to him, and hesitantly, the P-51 touched his nose to Skipper's. Dusty struggled hard to refrain from shouting out an "Aww!" as they pulled back from each other.

"I'm... sorry. I really am," Ripslinger began.

"You don't need to say anything," Skipper assured him.

"Yes, I do," the green and black Mustang said more strongly, "I owe each and every one of you an apology. Especially Tom..."

"Would you like to see him?" Dottie asked at the mention of the human's name.

"You'll let me see him after what I did?"

"Well he's been asking about you practically non-stop." said the forklift, "We just gave him another round of painkillers though, so he might be zonked out. You can still see him and sit with him if you like."

Ripslinger was led to Dottie's hangar. She slid the doors open, and Ripslinger slowly and hesitantly approached the bed where Tom was indeed fast asleep. He looked down at the boy sadly, but then checked when he saw that he still had his right arm. In was in some sort of cumbersome-looking contraption, but it was still there. He rested his chin lightly on the bed.

"Oh Tom... I'm sorry," he whispers as tears begin falling from his eyes, giving a short, weak chuckle at how stupid and insignificant his apology felt, "I'm so very sorry..."

Tom remained sleeping at first, then Ripslinger heard the boy yawn, and his eyes opened back up as a small smile began to spread across his face, and Tom smiled too as his sight cleared and the blur of green and black turned into a plane.

"Ripslinger..." he said tiredly.

"Yeah... It's me," he responded, smiling but feeling very dumb as he asked the question, "How're you feeling, kid?"

"Okay, how are you?"

"Well I'm..." the big plane faltered again, before remarking. "They saved your arm."

"Oh yeah. Dr. Peslue did an awesome job. The pins come out in about four weeks. He said with physical therapy there's a really good chance that I'll get normal function back and everything."

"That's awesome. Now, you go back to sleep, huh?"

"Will you still be here when I wake up?"

"Sure. I'll still be here."

"Can you stay with me a little bit?"

"Sure... I'll stay..." Ripslinger said gently, resting his chin again on the foot of the bed, watching the human drift back off to sleep.

Later on, the morning had turned pleasantly warm for a winter's day in Propwash Junction. Ripslinger had spent the last hour and a half talking to Skipper. About what, the rest of the group couldn't be sure, as they had all respectfully gave the two planes their privacy, but Dusty had an idea or two, the Corsair really being the only one who had somewhat similar experience to Ripslinger. However, the little racer knew what had happened to Skipper, where no one really knew for certain what had happened to the checker-marked Mustang. He patiently watched his mentor and Ripslinger from a distance as he lie down in the grass, the green and black plane seeming to listen intently as Skipper spoke.

Dusty wanted to be near Ripslinger again. He was so different to be around now. Whereas most of the time before, the larger plane's aura only gave off static and broken feelings of frantic distress and desperation, the line was now clear, with a wary but relieved calm purveying through it, and the orange and white plane wanted to learn more. Dusty lifted up somewhat when he noticed that the conversation appeared to be over, both planes starting to make their way back toward the garage.

Not quite knowing what came over him, the former crop duster met Ripslinger halfway, rushing over and making Ripslinger stutter to a stop in uncertainty, but once Dusty stopped short and bowed down on his landing gear, it triggered something and he was overcome with the same infectious energy as the smaller plane. He feigned a charge, deviating from his path at the last second with Dusty giving chase and nipping at his tail. Skipper watched them with a soft, amused smile on his face when he suddenly heard Tom calling out.

"Guys! Hey guys, come and look!" he called, walking gingerly toward the garage from Dottie's hangar. "I adapted this snare solo so I can do it with one hand, come on!"

And with that, everyone turned and followed the human back to the hangar. Meanwhile, further toward the end of the runway, Ripslinger and Dusty leaped at one another, the larger plane letting Dusty come back down on top of the front of him, then pushing him backward as the little racer gave pinching bites wherever he could reach. Dusty started to feel himself losing his balance, and he slid off of Ripslinger, laying down in submission. The green and black plane was about to exact some revenge for those bites earlier when Dusty had finally noticed that everyone was gone.

"Oh wow, where did everybody go?" he had asked.

"No idea."

"You didn't hear anything?"

"No, I was preoccupied keeping you off my tail."

"Hmm."

There was a long pause then, the two planes nonchalantly surveying the landscape around them.

"I'd kill to see that tail of yours up in the air again," Ripslinger suddenly said in a matter-of-fact tone.

And then Dusty checked slightly as he bit his lip, turning to look the P-51 over and smiling fiendishly.

[[WARNING. EXPLICIT CONTENT AHEAD.]]

The ensuing race to their favored spot in the woods down below was frantic with eager excitement, but once they got to the secluded area, their movements suddenly became unsure. So much had happened since their last coupling, and now that Ripslinger was cured, how different would it be? These thoughts were both present in some form in both planes' minds, but after a few false starts, Ripslinger carefully mounted Dusty and pushed himself inside of the smaller plane, agonizingly slow.

The "Oh!" that Dusty gave in response was both a gasp and a choke, and he visibly shivered when Ripslinger nipped at his plating before beginning to fuck in him in long, meticulous strokes.

"Yes..." Ripslinger hissed as he moved.

Dusty had made no other distinct, indicative sounds during the encounter. He came, hard and fast as he felt Ripslinger spend himself as well deep inside of him as he drove in an out with abandon, but otherwise wasn't all that reactive or enthusiastic as he had been during past activities. The younger plane almost seemed preoccupied with something else, and Ripslinger was beginning to feel a bit aggravated.

"What's the matter," he asked, sliding off of the orange and white racer, "They're not going to find us."

"It's not that, it's... nothing."

That was a phrase which had always irked Ripslinger. Anytime anybody said those words it was anything but nothing.

"Is there something you need to say to me," questioned the larger plane, his brow quirked somewhat in irritated impatience, looking about as put out as someone in his position could.

[ _AN: If you want to go ahead and cue up Fatboy Slim's "Demons" for some "mood music" here, be my guest_.]

Dusty looked up at him, seeming somewhat anxious. This may be the last time that they ever mate. He would regret it. The Mustang was so much more experienced than himself, but whether he responded favorably or not, if he didn't at least try the one thing that he had wanted to do with him since this whole, strange but tantalizing relationship had started... But then again, Dusty had the strong sense that the plane standing before him now, was not the same plane that he had known before.

Dusty set his expression, his eyes softening down into that odd, innocuousness that made everyone pay attention and oblige him, and Ripslinger found himself sucked into it as he ever had before, frozen to the spot and mesmerized as he watched the little plane steadily approach him. Wonderfully blue eyes never leaving the P-51s, they came nose to nose, and then, tilting, those blue eyes slipped closed as he pressed his lips softly against Ripslinger's.

Getting over his momentary shock, he began to push himself further into the smaller racer, but got yet another surprise when Dusty stood his ground, firmly pressing back into him and what's more opened his mouth against his, tongue demanding entrance. This once again froze Ripslinger into uncertainty at such foreign behavior, but he relented, allowing the orange and white plane access. Lips squelching off of each other as their tongues slipped over and caressed one another, the checker-marked Mustang quickly got back into the swing of things, and again began instinctually trying to take control of the situation, but Dusty would not be budged, and took his bottom lip in his teeth and bit down. He held it there, as he held Ripslinger in another stare, the larger plane still once more, and gradually, Dusty felt Ripslinger's frame relax, almost going limp before he finally let go.

The smaller racer moved from his mouth, slowly scraping one of his prop blades along one of Ripslinger's, causing the P-51 to suppress a shudder. With a vague, sort of muted surprise at himself he automatically crouched down into his landing gear, control surfaces lowering as he submitted completely.

 _Okay keep it up, Dusty_ , the little racer mentally coached himself, _Don't go getting ahead of yourself._

He continued on, planting soft, massaging kisses all down's the larger racer's chin, sucking and giving gentle, testing bites to the fore of his left wing. Ripslinger's breathing turned heavy as he began to shake, at a complete loss as to what to think or how to feel. Never, ever had he been subjected to such treatment. He had always been the one on top. The one under all the pressure. It was... nice. By now, Dusty had made his way around to the aft of his wing, and was licking and kissing over and under his control surfaces, which rose to meet his touch and then would shy away in confused indecision.

The former crop duster then slipped his wing under Ripslinger's belly, sliding it along, concealing his satisfaction in hearing Ripslinger finally suck in a sharp gasp, his tail rolling up as it slid over his ventral access panel. Turning his attention to it, Dusty licked, kissed, and sucked at the closed plates as they leaked built up precum from his hidden cock, throbbing rod and the cavity around it just _aching_ for proper stimulation. The orange and white plane felt the individual plates of Ripslinger's panel relax somewhat on his tongue, releasing more fluids, before they separated completely and slid back, revealing a glistening, needy slit. Dusty eagerly set about lapping at the firm, rubbery tissue, dexterous tongue sliding and swirling all around the outside, every now and then slipping teasingly into the tight folds of Ripslinger's entrance while the checker-marked P-51 panted feverishly. Then Dusty dipped his tongue inside, and the older plane's tail rose up even higher to meet it, forcing it in deeper as he felt it caress and squirm against his insides.

"God, Dusty..."

The little racer withdrew, and then heaved himself up over Ripslinger's back, clambering a bit to steady his balance on the larger plane. He stifled down a groan as he opened his own ventral access panel, almost painfully eager phallus finally released from its confines. Dusty slid it up and down against Ripslinger's entrance, although more to further lubricate it than to tease, and at the third stroke let it slip inside all the way up to the hilt, Ripslinger pulling in a deep breath through his intakes as he felt himself stretched.

"O-oh... F-fuck..."

Dusty wasted no time in starting in on him, thrusting into him in shallow, moderately quick strokes, not too hard, not too soft. Ripslinger was falling apart now, completely abandoning his efforts hold himself down and giving in to the glorious pressure that was spreading throughout his frame. Dusty still managed to keep a tight lid on himself, but it was becoming increasingly difficult when he became aware of a familiar, but altogether different sensation within the heart of him. He felt a ping from Ripslinger's end, and then confusion from his own. Then suddenly there was an explosion of surprised recognition and overwhelming happiness as the link was formed and an unbelievable surge of energy went coursing through each of their bodies. Ripslinger took in a sharp, powerful, almost painful gasp as he moaned loudly at the feeling, his engine rumbling fervently into it, his tongue rolling out over his teeth as his mouth widened.

"Oh god, Ripslinger..." Dusty moaned breathlessly, giving a long lick up the enraptured plane's canopy. "You feel so _good_..."

The green and black Mustang gave a wordless sound as Dusty began plunging into him deep and hard, the orange and white racer still struggling to keep a grip on himself. The lecherous pride and amusement in the way Ripslinger's cries and moans had started to get higher and higher in pitch were not helping matters.

 _Oh, god..._ the little racer chanted mentally, fighting a losing battle but still hanging on for all he was worth. _Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god..._

So this was what it was really supposed to be like, Ripslinger thought through his driving lust. This was how it was really supposed to feel. He had no idea. He had no _idea_. And he never would have if it hadn't been for the plane moving frantically above him, and all of his friends. Especially Tom, to whom he owed more to than the boy would probably ever know. And to think, he had almost lost them all. That old familiar creep of self doubt began to make its way to the surface. He could still lose them. Somehow, he might still end up alone.

 _Leave... Everyone... You won't leave me... Don't leave..._

"Oh god... oh god..." Dusty verbally chanted now, feeling the P-51 shaking below him, slick, silky walls spasming around his cock.

"Don't leave... Don't leave... Don't leave..." chanted Ripslinger aloud along with him, his face contorted in the strain of his impending release as his tail rose to meet each and every thrust.

 _Now I've got you_ , thought Dusty as he finally let himself go. His engine revved up, then began to lower back down, the noise getting deeper and deeper in pitch until it became a reverberating din, clicking over into the first copulatory idle of which he had full control over as he braced himself to ensure that he hit that sweet spot deep inside of the plane beneath him. Ripslinger's eyes widened as he sucked in another hard gasp as he felt the vibrations travel from Dusty's body to his, picked up and amplified by the many rubbery nodes all along both their cocks. A strangled scream tore up from Ripslinger's throat, engine roaring to life as white smoke poured from the exhausts lining his nose as his body quaked in the most powerful orgasm that he had ever experienced in his life. The first thing to go was his sight. Then his hearing slowly began to wane.

[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]

And then the next thing he knew, he was lying on the softness of the forest floor with Dusty laying partially on top of him. The little airplane was slowly and gently licking over his plating, an exhaustedly happy, somewhat prideful smile coloring his features as he watched the Mustang slowly come to.

"Dusty?" Ripslinger whispered a bit hoarsely, shifting feebly as he still had trouble bringing his sight back into focus.

"Shh... I'm right here. Take it easy, Rip," said Dusty gently.

Then he sighed contentedly, settling himself down more fully onto the green and black racer, idly whistling the melody to "When You Wish Upon A Star" as a slow, tired smile began to spread across Ripslinger's face.

Almost an hour later, still laying together in almost the same positions as the sunlight filtering through the trees created dappled patterns over their frames, Dusty suddenly spoke, his voice soft and imploringly sincere as he asked the question that had been on his mind since Tom had told them all what had happened that night in the old hangar.

"Ripslinger?"

"Mmm?"

"What happened to you?"

The larger plane got up then, gingerly, Dusty sliding off of him as he moved away. He didn't say anything for a few moments as Dusty patiently waited, staring at the P-51's back.

"Do you really want to know?" he said, his expression and tone anxious.

"Yes, I do."

Ripslinger hesitated, trying to figure out where he should start, his distress seeming to grow as he thought about it.

"I... I can't. I-I don't even remember most of it," he lied.

"It's okay. You can't just keep carrying this around with you for the rest of your life. Tell me."

"Alright..." Ripslinger said quietly after a few more moments of silence. "So, you know the Border to Border Rally of the West, right?"

"Yeah, it starts in San Diego, California and ends in the Cascades in Washington."

"Right. My father flew that race. I was eight years old. My family and I were waiting at the finish line during the last leg of the race..."

XXxx

A young P-51 Racing Mustang sat in the lush, green grass on one of the bluffs on either side above the finish line of the Border to Border Rally of the West. The racers had yet to be seen or heard as of yet, but the race commentators had announced their definite coming. The Mustang, fifteen feet long, and blue on top with a red belly sporting darker red checker markings, stood with his sister, purple and violet and the runt of the litter, while their two brothers tussled in the grass behind them. Their mother, patriotic red, white, and blue, an accomplished racer in her own right before retiring to have her children, stood over them, her confident, olive-colored eyes on the horizon.

"Billee, Martin, not so hard," she scolded softly when things between the two other boys started to get a little overzealous.

Martin, the yellow in his otherwise white, lighter and darker blue paint-scheme catching the late-spring sun, sat atop his brother, pinning him as he bit into his tail. At their mother's call, he let up somewhat, and Billee shrugged him off, the little forest camo P-51 giving him a sour look before they both moved to stand with their other siblings. Soon the faint sounds of aircraft engines could be heard, subsequent soft cheers and shouts of "They're coming!" complementing the noise.

"Pay careful attention, babies," the mother Mustang coached her proplings. "Especially you, Ripslinger," she addressed her blue and red son, "You're about to see once again why you're father is the number one Racing P-51 in the country."

The young Ripslinger looked up at her with a somewhat reluctant expression, little buds of propeller blades poking out from the two hubs in his nose cone twitching a bit, but then he felt a soft nudge in his flank. He looked back over to his left to see his sister smiling sympathetically at him. While his brother's scoffed at him for yearning for a career in music as the next big producer, his sister had thought nothing of it and had been very supportive through Ripslinger's pressures of being officially named as the one who would carry the torch for his father when the time came. Suddenly there was louder cheering from the crowds as the racers finally came into view, just little specks on the horizon coming over the mountains.

"And there they are folks," one of the race announcers echoed over the grounds, "We are just moments away from the end of our race, but it is still too early to tell who'll take the roses! The mountain still stands between them and the finish line! Who will dare to take The Plunge and upset our current line-up?"

The Plunge, as the commentator called it, was a great, natural cavern or tunnel right out of the last peak of the mountain range. Large enough for lighter aircraft to go through with little difficulty, but a significant risk for anyone larger. The tunnel emptied out right in front of the straightaway to the finish line. Those without the fastest engines often used it try to even out the final playing field from their larger, faster competitors, who would have to go over or around. Live-feeds from the different 'copter cams were blown up on four, colossal big screen monitors, and it was apparent to anyone watching that Ripslinger's father, bright paint and checker markings rippling in the dazzling sun, was planning another one of his stunts with how hard he was eyeing the opening to the cavern.

"Looks like Slingblade the Boomslang is giving The Plunge there a good, hard look," the second commentator observed to the other.

"Heh, not a dare I think I'd ever take if I had about sixteen feet of wing out to either side of me."

Ripslinger's father was third in line with the five leading racers as they came roaring up on the last peak before the finish line. He watched the two ahead of him, a bright red Sea Fury just behind another silver Mustang, start to deviate their paths. He smirked.

"They're on the last stretch now, Merry Privateer chasing Steel Marshall. Looks like they're going their separate ways... and The Boomslang's diving! He's going for it, I don't believe it! He's taking The Plunge!"

The crowd watched, all cheering wildly in disbelief as Slingblade dove, tilting slightly as he went darting into the mouth of the tunnel. Once out of sight, they all excitedly turned their attentions to the monitors to watch the P-51 fly through the narrow cavern with daring precision, eyes unblinking as he focused on the quickly growing light at the end. Fast approaching the exit, he smiled at his assured victory, but then a small dark object suddenly went snapping across his sight right in front of him, breaking his concentration and causing him to flinch. And that was enough to send a wing tip into the wall of the cave, and then the other into the opposite wall even harder when he over corrected, until the same wing hit an overhang and suddenly the monitors showed nothing but red-hot fire. Then everyone, gasping and emitting quiet words of shock and despair, too horrified to even scream, turned from the monitors to look at the mouth of the tunnel as fire, smoke, rock, and shrapnel came billowing out of it.

The family of Mustangs on the bluff were all frozen in disbelief and alarm, and their terror only grew at the crashing sound of their mother collapsing behind them. The planes and cars that had been standing near them quickly cleared away, her screams of agony bled into the entirely unnatural, deafening sounds coming from her engine. The screaming then turned to anguished sobs, her tears being replaced by a strange, jet black liquid that began leaking profusely from her eyes, soon beginning to pour from her exhausts and mouth. Medical personnel came rushing onto the scene, pushing the convulsing P-51's children away from her. Ripslinger huddled with his siblings in shock and horror, hearing them emitting shrill squeals of distress from their engines, sounds that they had not made since infancy.

As their mother was eventually loaded onto an aircraft ambulance and driven the short distance to the airfield hospital, it was decided that the children would be best kept back in their hotel room for the time being. They all creched tightly together, their tears, fear, and stress having died down into exhaustion as they slept. Ripslinger couldn't say how long they'd been asleep for, for sure, nor even if it were day still or night, but something had woken him up. He heard his sister cough once or twice, and his brother, Martin, stirred uncomfortably. The air felt very thick in their room, and the floor below them was oddly very hot. Then he heard what he thought had woken him up. Strange sounds were coming from somewhere. Snapping and cracking, and rumbling and heavy things falling. And an odd sort of rushing noise.

Ripslinger stood up, careful not to wake the others, and crept toward the doors to their hotel room. He listened carefully, wary eyes traveling around the room, smelling the air, growing more and more innately afraid the more information he took in even though he had no idea why. Then he felt his brother Martin at his side. Martin was the second largest propling in the litter, and, for all the slag that he sometimes gave him, Ripslinger's wingman when times called for it.

"Rip, what's going on?" he whispered.

"I don't know, but we've gotta get out of here. Wake the others."

Once everyone was awake, Ripslinger was first to the door. He was afraid to open it, for new sounds were starting to be heard. Screaming. The door felt warm to the touch as he hesitantly pushed it open, and they were all hit straight in the face with the rush of hot air sucked into their room as the door was opened. The hallway outside was filled with smoke.

"The hotel... The hotel is on fire!" his sister squeaked, her voice trembling.

"Hush, Isabelle," Ripslinger tried to sooth as he fought down his own panic at the terrible realization. "Come on. Follow me. Martin, you bring up the rear and keep them together. Stay low."

"Got it."

His siblings obeyed him without question. He was the one they ultimately all looked up to. They depended on him now. Left to themselves, it was up to him to get them all to safety. They all crept along, the hallway not being big enough to permit then from traveling more than two abreast. Now out of their room, they could hear all sorts of horrible sounds. Cries for help, other children squealing for their mothers, orders being barked, vehicles cursing and fighting each other in their panic and confusion. Their air was increasingly hot and choking and it was getting more and more difficult to see.

"Hey, Rip," Martin called from behind, "The fire... I think it's on the floor below us."

"How're we supposed to get out then?" asked Billee, coughing, "Aren't these hotels supposed to have sprinkler systems or something?"

"I don't know, but it's alright. We'll just feel where the floor isn't so hot," the blue and red Mustang assured, "There's four different elevators, we'll find the one that's not as near the fire. Billee, keep your nose down."

However, it seemed as though every single foot they moved further the floor under their wheels only seemed to become hotter and hotter, the floor creaking and groaning. Ripslinger stopped.

"Come on, let's turn around and try that other hallway," he suggested.

He and Martin switched their positions, but before they started moving back in the other direction, there was a stronger groaning, and then a loud crash as Martin shouted in surprise. Billee, Isabelle, and Ripslinger turned in alarm as the floor collapsed and fell through underneath him. Ripslinger quickly skirted around his sister and brother and grabbed Martin by the wing just as his right landing gear slipped and he was partially dangling over the floor below them, which they could see now was completely engulfed in flames. Ripslinger was almost pulled over too until his eyes squeezed shut, tears gathering at the corners in pain, as Billee and Isabelle each grabbed him behind a wing in their teeth, trying not to bite down too hard in turn on Martin's wing.

"Come on!" he grunted through his teeth, "Pull!"

The three young planes began to reverse, and even as they felt themselves gaining traction and moving backward, Ripslinger felt the softer metal of Martin's wing slipping between his teeth. There was no way that they could pull any faster. He needed to adjust his grip, but then Martin might slip completely, but then again, if he didn't get get a better hold on his wing, he would fall for sure. He had to be quick. Lightning fast, he opened his jaws just a fraction, moving forward in the same instant to make up for any lost surface area, and felt his teeth close on thin air.

In horror, he watched his brother fall, screaming in agony as the conflagration below swallowed him up. And then Ripslinger screamed, tears pouring from his eyes as he heard the anguished, terror-filled cries of his bother and sister behind him.

"MOMMY!"

Then, as if summoned, a star-spangled wing swooped over them, gathering the siblings and turning them away from the terrible scene. They almost recoiled from the sight of their mother, severely weakened as she sagged into her shaking landing gear, almost the whole front of her body covered in that black sludge as it still leaked from her eyes and exhausts, her paint-scheme badly singed and bubbled in some places over her wings and flanks.

"Come on, kids," she encouraged, keeping her voice calm but strong for them, "Let's go."

She kept them all in front of her wings, leading them back the way she had come. Then Billee suddenly dropped to the floor, light headed and exhausted. Ripslinger and Isabelle instantly stopped in their progress, turning around instinctively and going to their brother. The mother P-51 put her nose under her third-born child, tipping him back up to his wheels, and urging him on. At this point she lead the way, as visibility was growing less and less. As she rounded the corner to the hallway that she had come from that lead to one of the elevators, it was blocked. She quickly turned and took the remainder of her family down a different hallway, not wanting her children to see what it was blocked with.

They eventually found a different elevator, the last working elevator for their floor, but it was only able to go down to the second floor; they would have to find another working elevator. As they exited onto the second floor, the smoke wasn't as bad, and the air wasn't as stifling, but once again, Billee collapsed, and this time she could not get him back up. He was nearly overcome with smoke inhalation, and his strength was gone. Again, his brother and sister and gone and huddled into him where he fell, and it was in this heart-breaking moment that their mother realized that she would have to leave him. He was too big for her to carry in her current, weakened state. He would only be too cumbersome and would hurt her ability to get her other children to safety. Painfully, she used her nose to push Ripslinger and Isabelle from their brother, keeping each one in front of a wing as they made their way to the next elevator, ushered through the first floor and outside by the firefighters on scene. The patriotically-colored Mustang lead them as far from the hotel as possible before finally collapsing onto the cool wet grass, the stars overhead partially obscured by smoke and flames.

"It's alright..." she muttered weakly, feeling the last of her Soul bleed from her, "It's over... we're okay... It'll be alright..."

While Isabelle stayed with their mother, Ripslinger slowly turned away, hearing her continue to rattle on, feeling numb as tears streamed down his face. He staggered on his landing gear as he faced the engulfed hotel, the fire defiantly raging on despite the three hoses pouring on it by the hundreds of gallons.

"BILLEE!" he screamed in despair, exhausting himself of breath as he choked, his voice squeaking, "Martin... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

"Mom?"

The young male turned back again at his sister's voice. Isabelle stood before their mother's nose, the larger P-51 oddly still. Her eyes stared blankly ahead, as if zoned-out in thought, dull and reflecting no light. Ripslinger pressed his nose to her burned side, feeling nothing and receiving no response.

She was dead. They were all gone... He and Isabelle were all that were left. It was his fault... It was all his fault... Ripslinger and Isabelle held on to each other tightly, weeping in fear, desolation, and confusion at how fast everything had turned. What was going to happen to them?

Hours later, the investigators had come, taking the frightened proplings from their mother. They now sat huddled together against the wall of some sort of group home. There were many young vehicles there, parentless. They did not socialize with any of them. Isabelle trembled, staring at the floor listlessly, whimpering.

"All dead... All gone..."

"No Isabelle," her brother soothed as he struggled to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "You still have me. It's going to be okay. I'll take care of us. I'll get us out of here somehow. You just have to be patient and hold on for me, okay?"

Over the last week he had watched his sister slowly fading away. To their credit the people running the orphanage had been watchful and attentive, but despite their best efforts, she continued to decline. They knew that it might be a futile effort. Orphaned aircraft usually didn't last very long without their parents. For reasons that science had yet to explain, such traumatic separations would cause some sort of instinctual mechanism to flip and they simply waste away in their despair. Older children usually fared better, but could still turn one way or another.

Ripslinger nuzzled her, licking over her canopy, which brought a minute amount of color back to her paint. As the days dragged on, with no idea how his eight-year-old self was supposed to fix this awful predicament so that his sister might get better, they continued to keep to themselves. Isabelle kept yo-yoing. Some days he could get her to eat with him, then all of a sudden she'd back-slide into her listless, sickly behavior. Then one day, unbeknownst to the the brother and sister, due to resources and the difficulty in placing such models of aircraft, along with their increasingly worrying behavior in isolating themselves, it was decided that Isabelle would be sent to another facility.

Normally it was impossible to find one without the other, but while Ripslinger had gone off to bring back food for his sister, they took the opportunity and began leading her away, telling her that she would be going to a new home where she might get adopted quicker. She was not long in crying out for her brother after being told that he was not coming with her. Hearing her calling for him, he immediately rushed over, only to be caught and held back by a few of the workers. By that response, he didn't need to be told what was going on.

"No, you can't take her, she'll die without me!" he screamed desperately.

They ignored him, and continued pushing his sister on toward the doors where the trailer was waiting outside, and the closer they got her to those doors, the more panicked Ripslinger became in his struggles to get to her, until her pitiful, desperate cries eventually caused something to snap inside him, driving him mad.

He struck out at the forklift holding him back to the left of him with slashing teeth, rending a great gash all down their face as the hydraulic fluid, like watered down blood, splattered everywhere. The enraged young Mustang immediately turned then and pounced on the the forklift to the right, grabbing him in his teeth and shaking him violently as he screamed in agony. The shrill noise only seemed to drive Ripslinger further, chewing and chomping until eventually the screams were abruptly cut off before he went for his next victim.

"Ripslinger! Stop! Please!" his sister shrieked in horror at the sight of her brother as red fluid began to coat the front of his frame all the way up to his eyes. "Stop! Ripslinger please stop!"

He was deaf to her pleading as he finished with his second victim and started on his third. By then all personnel had been called in, and it took all of six workers to completely subdue him, jumping on him and crushing him into the floor. His sight was obscured as he watched his sister disappear through the doors of the orphanage, and his engine made a tortured, strangled noise that it should not have been able to make at so young an age. While they held him down, the clinical staff had come in and administered a hefty dose of tranquilizers, but for all of his heightened activity, they seemed to have little effect.

Ripslinger was then manhandled into one of the observation rooms where they attempted to rope him to the tie downs built into the floors. He continued to struggle through the effects of the drugs, snapping them all as he kept on trying to attack his subduers. And that was when they brought in the chains. Lengths and lengths of chains were wrapped over his frame and bolted to the floor, and thrash as he might, he could not break them. Almost completely immobilized, they gave him yet another dose of tranquilizers, and he finally succumbed.

They left him there, periodically checking for signs of the sedation wearing off. And every time he would immediately begin struggling and yelling for his sister and they would have to sedate him again before he could hurt himself. The third time they had come in to try and get him to eat something, he had attacked and bitten off one of the tines of the forklift who had brought him out of sedation. They left him alone again. And this time, they did not come back for three days. For a full day and a half, he thrashed, he twisted, he struggled, and he cried and he cried, until, in the darkness and solitude, his strength and hope left him. He stood, almost in a catatonic state, in the chains. By the end of the third day, the door was opened. Ripslinger remained motionless.

"Ripslinger?"

The blue and red Mustang's eyes opened part way as he was addressed, staring dully at the floor for a few moments, then they opened a little more, the light from the open doorway catching in them as he looked around blankly but for a slight wariness.

"Would you like to come out now?"

He came calmly, being led by twitch poles attached to his wings as a precaution. It was almost like they were dealing with a completely different plane, although they were altogether unsettled by the odd new look to his eyes. Indifferent. Almost bored. A calculating patience.

XXxx

"Needless to say, I never ended up getting adopted. I stayed in that orphanage for seven more years. Biding my time. Never really talking or socializing outside of taking all the food and education they would give me until I grew big and strong enough to fly. Big and strong enough to escape."

Dusty stared at him, having been completely silent for the entirety of the recalling. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted as he tried to process everything he just heard. Then he closed it, face falling in sorrowful pity. Everything made complete sense now. Ripslinger calmly observed his reaction with a somewhat blank expression, silent tears streaming down his face.

"I don't know what to say..." Dusty said, his voice lacking any power.

"What is there to day?" was Ripslinger's response.

"What about Isabelle? She was alive the last time you saw her," Dusty ventured.

"That was the one thing that kept me going. The only thing that I had thought of for seven whole years and longer. When I escaped the orphanage and flew away, I looked up the location of our house. It was still there. It's still there right now. No one's ever lived in it. It's still mine, technically. Anyway I took all the money from a safe we kept hidden in one of the bookshelves in the study and flew down to LA and started racing. I was successful, as you already know. I made a ton of money, but all that and the best private investigators it could buy couldn't find Isabelle. You know the rest."

 **For** once in his life, Dusty was more or less at a complete loss for words. It was just so much to take in.

"I'll bet your parents would be proud of you, if they could see you now," Dusty offered to a sad scoff from Ripslinger. "All you've overcome; you only did what you thought you had to. They would understand."

" _You're_ something to be proud of more than I'll ever be. You make me look like a Bug," and then that finally brought the question to his mind after all his time spent with Dusty in Propwash Junction, "Where are your parents anyway?"

"Oh, _my_ parents?" Dusty asked, surprised, "Well they both died when I was really little. I never really got to know them," he answered, sinking somewhat into his landing gear sadly, then scrunching his face up a softly as he tried to recollect, "I barely even remember what they look like anymore."

Ripslinger stared at him, really looking at him for what felt like the first time. Now that he was healed, the larger plane could really see him now. See Dusty for what he was. All his fight, his compassion, his determination, his courage, his innocent thoughtfulness. Who knew you could fit all that he had into such a small package? Olive-colored eyes roved over his frame, remembering all the injuries and hurt he'd caused him, knowing that a lot of it was unseen.

"I'm sorry Dusty. I've done you so much evil and I can't undo it," Ripslinger acknowledge sorrowfully, but Dusty only smiled, turning to him and dropping his nose.

"No, Rip," he said softly, shaking his front, "You're _healed_! None of that means anything and will never stay with me as long as knowing that you can now go on to live a normal life and experience all the good things that life can offer you." Then he moved forward, nuzzling himself into the fore of the crook of Ripslinger's wing, giving him a small kiss near the corner of his mouth before saying, "I forgive you..."

And they were the most beautiful words that Ripslinger had ever heard. He closed his eyes, sighing as he felt a great weight lifted from him, silent tears falling as they stood, embracing one another for a long while. Later, the sun setting on the horizon in front of them, Ripslinger sat, with Tom at his side, staring off into the distance. Neither said a word the entire time, until out of the blue, Ripslinger spoke, making the human jump a bit.

"I'm confused, Tom," he said, still staring straight ahead. "I'm cured. I can feel it. But it just feels like every puzzle piece has now been blown out of proportion. It's like learning to fly all over again. Where do I even go from here?"

Despite addressing him, the plane spoke as if Tom weren't there, or at least as if he didn't mind him being there, and his words and openness made the boy's heart beat so hard in happiness and yet so hard in sadness. Looking thoughtful, he answered him.

"I think you're going through a phase right now, kind of like how I was with you."

Ripslinger turned and looked down at him then, a suspicious twitch of his prop blades as he waited for the human to elaborate. Tom blinked up at him, feeling a bit self-conscious as he looked back down, the grass suddenly becoming very interesting as he continued.

"It's to be expected really, considering all that's happened. You won't feel lost like that forever though. It's like you've been given a second chance. All that stuff you had to go through. Despite what you think, you need and deserve it. Yeah, it's going to be a steep learning curve, learning how to be functional again. But it's like you said, learning how to fly. Maybe this time you'll learn how to fly a different way. It's... It's like you're finally free. You've been given the chance to start over and live a better life now. You can make up your own way for... well, for you! So you can't mope about it."

Tom's systems went on INTRUDER ALERT when Ripslinger suddenly leaned down, nose pointed at him as he moved a bit closer. Oh, god, he looked so... so passionate! Not goo-goo eyed or amazed, just passionate, with a certain amount of seriousness hooded over it to keep his character intact.

"Um, yeah, I... It feels like I've been going through the same thing. I know for certain something's been changing inside of me too. It's a really weird feeling," and Tom's eyes grew somewhat distant as he tapped into it, feeling Ripslinger's Soul open up to him, rippling in a variety of emotions. Then he smiled. "But I know it's happening."

Then he almost jumped out of his skin to see Ripslinger's nose right in his face.

"How does that feel?" he asked, his expression drew into an eager glare that the boy was not familiar with. "That kind of change?

"Re-" Tom gulped, "-juven-ating?"

Those olive-colored eyes of his brightened as he gave a small, thoughtful smile, like the light from the sunset was drawn into them to make them gleam in the twilight. He was almost too intense for the human to take. And despite his next words, his expression wasn't of mockery at all. It was actually serious, but softer because it was also somewhat somber.

"You know, I was once convinced you were the noisiest, weirdest kid who was too far gone to be mentally salvaged that I'd ever met."

Ripslinger's smirk was so small it was practically invisible. Tom retorted back playfully but

quietly, bashfully even.

"...I used to think you were the creepiest plane I'd ever met."

And the Mustang's brow snapped up in amused humor.

"Should I be surprised?"

"Mm," Tom lowered his gaze again and shook his head, "Nah-uh, not really."

Ripslinger chuckled setting his sight once more into the sinking sun. There was more silence, before he broke it again, speaking at length.

"I'm a little afraid to go home. I know I'm cured, but something inside me still feels off-kilter. I don't really have the kind of support system there that I do here."

"You don't have to leave," Tom said emphatically, suddenly overcome with emotion as he abruptly pressed himself against the huge plane's side, burying his face into it. "You can just stay here. I don't want you to go..."

"I have to go back, Tom. Like you said. I have to make my own way now."

"Can I come with you?"

"I can't take you with me right now," Ripslinger said, his expression still looking regretful in sympathy, "I've got a lot of stuff I need to figure out. Maybe someday."

"Oh Ripslinger, I'll miss you," Tom said tearfully as he came around to the front of him, pulling the P-51's nose down into him to Ripslinger's slightly wide-eyed surprise as he hugged the plane, giving him a kiss on his nose cone.

"Yeah... I'll miss you too, Tom."

"You will come back to visit, right?"

"Sure," Ripslinger said, his expression sincere but almost pained as the boy looked at his own reflection in the green and black racer's eyes as he spoke. "Sure I will, kid."

"Okay then. Goodbye Ripslinger," said Tom, giving the side of the Mustang's nose a few pets. "I love you."

"Yeah... I love you, too."

The group saw Ripslinger off as he departed from Propwash Junction's airport, only this time he employed none of his usual speed. He flew at a more leisurely pace, allowing himself to just drift as the landscape flew away underneath him, having much to ponder over during the long journey back home.


End file.
